Terror Firma
by Madders Ahatter
Summary: When Sam Leaps into Earthquake torn Los Angeles, he finds himself becoming part of the rebuilding of the city in more ways than one! [Story 1 of 5]
1. Writer's notes

Writer's Notes.

Terror Firma was my first attempt at fan fiction. At the time, I believe it was unique in that it was written in '94 and set in '95. (Had the publishers taken up the option, they could have released the book on the Leap day, to much publicity!)

I discovered "Quantum Leap" rather late, and had only just become hooked on the series when I heard it had been cancelled.

Then my two asthmatic children developed whooping cough, so for six months I was having to get up every twenty minutes or so to sit one or other of them up to help them breathe. After a couple of weeks, I tired of lying awake listening for their wheezes and wishing I could sleep, and turned instead to more productive thoughts.

So I began thinking about the Leaps I would like to see Sam do that hadn't been in the series (Though at that time I had by no means seen all the episodes). Pretty soon, the plot for Terror Firma began to form in my brain.

I started jotting down odd notes in the night, or creating scenes in my head, and writing them up in odd minutes the following day.

At the end of six months, it was finished and typed up on my computer – which at the time was an old Acorn Archimedes using Pendown Plus.

It was written initially purely for my own amusement, but I showed it to my mother as she was also a QL fan.

She told me to send it to the publishers, but I accused her of bias in her praise and hesitated. She told me the worst they could do was tell me it was rubbish, or more likely ignore it altogether, and in the end persuaded me to submit it.

At the time, the 'official' stories were still being published at the rate of three a year. I submitted TF to Boxtree, the British publishers, and as I suspected, got it back three weeks later unread.

However, on the positive side, they sent me what were then the two next books in the series, a month before publication, so I got them free and I got them first. The submission of "Terror Firma" was worth it for that alone.

They explained that as the series was American, all copyright was held by the US publishers, Berkeley, and I would have to submit my story to Ginjer Buchanan there.

I did this, and got a very positive letter in return (see below).

This letter inspired me to forge ahead and write "Run for their Lives" the third story in what was originally planned as a trilogy. The second "High Hopes" was only recently finished – in time to present it to Dean Stockwell on May 1st when I met him.

The series has grown, and will now be a total of five stories, which follow an arc, set almost at the end of season 5, just pre 'Mirror Image'.

Part Four is called "Snake in the Grass" and will shock Sam fans to the core! Due to the adult themes it deals with, it is posted on AO3.

The final story is– "M.E., myself and Sam" and is also posted over at AO3 due to the nature of the content.


	2. Acknowledgements

Terror Firma (On Solid Ground) 

**A Quantum Leap Novella **

**By Helen Earl**

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

My grateful thanks to the following for inspiration and assistance:

Most importantly of course the brilliant Scott Bakula, Dean Stockwell, Don Bellisario and everyone connected with the programme "Quantum Leap", for creating the original series, and such powerful characters.

"Electric Dreams" – the movie with the brick!

Mariah Carey for "Hero" – a perfect description of Sam.

Cervantes, and Leigh and Darion, for "Don Quixote – Man of La Mancha".

My children, Robert and Rebecca, for coughing at night (with asthma and whooping cough), over a period of six months, thus keeping me awake and so giving me time to hatch my plot.

My mother, Connie, for proof-reading and encouragement.

My driving instructor, for suggesting that I should do something for myself.

My husband, David, for curbing his jealousy of the other man in my life – Dr Sam Beckett.

Sgt Tina Williams and Carlos Zelaya of RAF Alconbury, for their kind help and 'local' knowledge, especially of Mulholland Drive.

**Disclaimer:**

**All rights to Quantum Leap, Sam, Al and original series characters remain of course with Bellisarius Productions and Universal.**

**Rights to characters specific to this story are mine.**

**I write under the name of Madeleine Duchesse.**

**Note:**

**The author wishes to make it clear that the shattering of the gear lever in the accident is merely for dramatic effect, and that no criticism is intended of the design or manufacture of Trans-Am cars. **

**  
**


	3. Letters from the Publishers

_Dear Mrs Earl,_

_Thank you for sending along TERROR FIRMA for consideration for inclusion in our QUANTUM LEAP novel program._

_You're right - it is certainly publishable. I am at the moment looking specifically for the third book on the most recent licensing contract. With your permission, I would like to hold TERROR FIRMA as a possibility._

_I make no promises - I have a number of very strong projects on submission, and I need to choose the one that I feel is not only the best written, but also one that will balance with the books already published. Your book, like the first of Ashley McConnell's, is a straightforward Leap, with more complexity than an episode would have, given that books have neither special effects budgets or one-hour time constraints. I like that, and it may be "time" for another such book._

_I should say that I'm not sure how MCA would feel about dealing with an author based in Britain. If it came to it, do you have anyone over here who could act as your agent? Think about it._

_One last thing - I do find it curious that you would chose to set your Leap story in L.A. You did a good job - except for the spellings, I wouldn't have immediately been able to tell that the author of TERROR FIRMA was British. But one of the requests that I frequently get is for books set outside the U.S. (The book just out here takes place in British Columbia, which has made more than a few Canadian Leapers happy.) Have you thought of doing a story set closer to home? You might - it is one of the things that I am definitely looking for._

_If you have any questions, don't hesitate to write._

_Sincerely_

_Ginjer Buchanan_

_Executive Editor, SF and Fantasy._

This led to "Run for their Lives" as you will see from the follow up, (to be posted)

In answer to the above letter, I wrote to Ginjer to say that not only was I delighted to give my permission for her to use TERROR FIRMA (which of course she did not in the end) but that I had already begun work on "High Hopes" and had planned out a story set in England (London and Bedford to be precise) as requested which eventually became "Run for their Lives". All these stories (plus "Snake in the Grass" and the final of the series "M.E. myself and Sam,") are linked by a story arc centered around the Project staff, which is why I decided not to post "Run" until "High Hopes" was up.

"High Hopes" was the story I gave to Dean Stockwell when I met him in Milton Keynes, a copy of which he signed for me.

Here is the letter that led to "Run" being completed first:

_November 22, 1994_

_Dear Mrs Earl,_

_As it happens, shortly after I wrote to you, I got in a revision on a proposal that I had liked a great deal earlier, and sent that along to MCA for approval for the third book. (By the by, it's titled LOCH NESS LEAP, so I may get my book set in Britain after all, written by two authors who live in the pacific Northwest!)_

_But I fully expect to contract for more books after the first of the year, so I will still hold on to TERROR FIRMA. I like both of your other ideas, too, but in the further interest of internationalism, I might suggest that you work up the nanny one first..._

...She then goes on to deal with U.S. agents and payments in foreign currencies, which seemed to be the biggest stumbling block to publishing my stories! doh!

Unfortunately, by the time 'real life' had allowed me to finish working on "the nanny one" (RFTL) and submit it, they had just taken the decision not to publish any more QL novels.

Guess my timing sucks!


	4. Chapter 1

Chapter One 

Smiles, laughter, congratulatory slaps on the back. Another job well done. General celebrations of a happy ending.

Sam Beckett knew all about this scene. It was one he had left behind many times. As he was embraced by his 'husband' he felt the familiar tingle which meant that at any moment he would be Leaping again.

He was responsible for the happy ending, his efforts had ensured it, but he was never allowed to sit back and enjoy it. The fruits of his not inconsiderable labors were for others to savor.

Yet the bitterness of this irony never stayed with him long. Sam would not have wallowed in self-pity even if given the chance. That was not his nature. But in any case, he had no time for looking backwards. He must look forward and discover who he would become in this latest Leap, where and when he was 'landing' and most importantly, why...

Leaping in always left him disoriented, and he was used to having to think on his feet. This Leap seemed almost relaxed, certainly uneventful - at first.

Sam found himself dressed in a pair of faded blue-jeans, a red plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a bright yellow hard-hat. His feet were encased in heavy boots. For the briefest moment he dared to hope that he had returned once again to life of Jimmy LaMotta, the retarded boy whom he'd helped to get a job at the docks. But the scent that reached his nostrils now was nothing remotely like sea air. He wasn't sure what it was, although he knew he'd smelt it before. The one thing it definitely _wasn't_ was a coastal breeze.

Incongruously, he was indoors, and carrying a clip-board with pages of figures on it, none of which made any immediate sense - but he was used to that. There was also a column which appeared to be some sort of a check-list and judging by the number of ticks, the verification was almost complete.

Since there were no reflective surfaces at hand to allow him to size up his new appearance...

"At least I'm a man again this time, oh boy how I HATE high heels!"

... he started to take a mental note of his surroundings.

He was walking along a bank of computer relays, of a complexity to rival ground-control at Houston. Could it be? No, he didn't think so. Well, at least he was narrowing down the possibilities. This sort of technology meant that he had not Leaped into the 50's or 60's this time around - nor yet the 70's.

In fact it was on a par with Ziggy and the Quantum Leap complex he'd left behind in New Mexico in 1999. As far as he could recall, that was, which wasn't always as far as he wished.

(Note, I know canon says his first leap was 95, for my stories, the date he gives in Star Light of 1st May 99 is the last day of his 'real' life that he remembers, so all dates are based on that. Inconsistent? So was Don, so I'm in good company!)

Lights winked on and off at intervals and there was a steady hum. Gauges all registered normal as far as he could tell. He tried to match the data on the sheets with the information on the vast arrays before him. He knew how to handle most computers, Project QL would never have got off the ground if he hadn't been computer literate among his many other talents. But the configuration of this system was not standard. It would take him a while to iron out its quirks. He just hoped that he would be afforded the time to work it out before something went wrong, as it invariably did.

The place was apparently deserted, apart from himself (whoever he was). A quick scan of his environment failed to locate another living soul.

"Al?" His voice echoed round the vaulted ceiling.

Right now, Sam wanted to see a friendly face, especially that of Admiral Albert Calavicci, his one contact with the world he had left behind. He relied on Al to fill him in on the details he would need to fulfill his mission, but more than that, this vast complex devoid of people, and the faint aroma of - what?- unnerved Sam. Something wasn't right. He didn't like being the only one around.

"Beckett! You there, Beckett!"

Sam swung around, a little too fast, and hit his head on a conduit which transversed the corridor he had been walking down.

Lucky he was wearing the hard-hat, he thought, or he could have been looking at a concussion. It was not just the jar to his skull that confused him though.

Al always called his 'Sam', or perhaps 'you lucky dog' if he was in the company of a beautiful woman, but never the impersonal 'Beckett".

And no-one else was ever supposed to know who he really was. He had gotten used to answering to any name called, just in case it belonged to his new persona, but he had forgotten what it was like to react to his own name. It was like being back in school when they called the roll each morning. He half expected to have to stand and salute the flag and pledge allegiance. But this was no time to get homesick.

"Oh, boy!"

"What was that, Beckett? Who you talking to?"

The man approaching Sam was short and plump, balding, his high domed forehead reflecting the lights from the ceiling. He reminded Sam a little of the actor Danny DeVito (how come I remember him? wondered Sam) only nowhere near as friendly. This guy had all the charisma of a basking shark.

"Er, I said, Yo, Boss," improvised Sam. He was a trained observer and a practiced ad-libber. He was willing to bet that this man was his superior. Judging by the neat navy blue suit and air of authority, quite a bit superior. He spoke with a marked Italian accent, his tone as well as his manner led Sam to suspect that he could easily be in danger of losing 'himself' a job.

Where was Al? He desperately needed some background information to help him make the correct responses.

Experience had taught him that sometimes a hasty word or action at the beginning could significantly hamper the course of a Leap, changing things for the worse before he could find out how he was supposed to be making them better. A case of what he didn't know being more than capable of hurting him, and others.

"Very good, Sam."

At last, Al was there. Not really there of course, he never actually stepped out of the Imaging Chamber, but with him in spirit, so to speak. Sam found it amazing at times that no-one else could see his friend, Al. Dressed as he was - in a flamboyant lurid green suit with black lapels, multi-colored paisley shirt, lime green silk tie, topped off by a crushed velvet matching green fedora, and of course the ever present cigar- Sam thought he was kind of hard to miss.

Al confirmed that Sam's hunch had been right:

"This is Luigi Ruggiero, head honcho of this huge establishment and most definitely your boss. You are... " he punched a series of keys on his com-link, trying to coax the information from a reluctant Ziggy.

"Here we are, you are David oh! Beckett!"

His eyebrows raised and he tilted his head to one side as he glanced at his friend, Dr Samuel John Beckett. The implications of this coincidence had not escaped him either.

Sam felt the apparent silence, the one between David Beckett and his boss, was getting oppressively long. He searched for something 'safe' to say.

"Is there a problem, Mr Ruggiero, Sir?" he asked, with as much deference as he could muster, and praying against all expectation that the answer was 'No'.

"You tell me, boy," snarled Ruggiero, "Haven't you finished those safety tests yet? We go on line TOMORROW you know. Construction has to begin at dawn on the 7th or I stand to lose a fortune."

Sam didn't have the faintest idea what the man was talking about, but he felt sure that the one thing calculated to rub him up the wrong way was the thought of losing money. Luigi fiddled with his gold cufflinks as if to emphasize the point.

"And if anything goes wrong at the Press Conference tomorrow…."

He didn't elaborate, but Sam predicted it wouldn't be pleasant for him. He threw a look at Al, which said 'Let me get rid of this character so you and I can _talk._'

Al said "I'll see you in the next aisle." and vanished, not in a puff of smoke, but through a doorway of light.

Sam made a big show of studying his clipboard.

"Almost done, Sir," he reported, "Everything checks out so far, I'm just making sure…." He paused, hoping he wouldn't have to elaborate on what he was just making sure of. He was a shrewd judge of character. Ruggiero had heard all he wanted to hear and headed off with a parting shot:

"Just have that report on my desk within the hour, Beckett."

'Yeah, **if **I can find out where your desk is.' Thought Sam ruefully, staring intently at the instrument panel nearest to him, in the hope that it would start to make sense and that Ruggiero would be convinced that he knew what he was doing.

As soon as he was sure it was safe, Sam rushed to his rendezvous with Al.

"Well?" he inquired, "I hope Ziggy's going to come up trumps for once, Al, 'cos I've got a bad feeling about this one. Something doesn't smell right."

Al would have liked to make light of it, tell Sam that this was going to be an easy one. Trouble was, he had an uneasy feeling too. He tried not to let it show.

"You are in Los Angeles. It's Friday August 4th 1995."

Sam had been right about the technology being recent.

"David Beckett is Chief Computer Technician at Ruggiero and Sons. Ever heard of them?"

"Should I have?" it was a question Sam often had to ask, in one form or another, and it always annoyed him.

Al picked up on the tone, and didn't need to comment on it. He continued:

"It was a pioneering Construction Company in the mid 90's. Came into its own following the earthquakes early in '94. Ring any bells now?"

Sam was frequently frustrated by his Swiss-cheese memory, but when he concentrated he could sometimes retrieve information that he had once taken for granted.

"Los Angeles, '94. Yeah, as I recall they did a lot of damage, but the casualties were light. (That sort of detail always impressed itself on Dr Beckett.) It took years to rebuild some parts of the city. Some company made a fortune on a government contract by using automated construction techniques and specially designed quake-proof materials…" Al could almost see the grey cells at work.

"Ruggiero & Sons!" they both said, in perfect unison.

"And it's the grand unveiling tomorrow." continued Sam; always happy to prove he could find some things out for himself.

"Is that why I'm here, Al? To make sure it goes smoothly tomorrow. Does this gear malfunction or something?" He gestured at the complicated technology surrounding them, as if he expected a needle to waver into the 'danger' zone at any second.

Inaugural flights, maiden voyages, opening nights – all had the potential for disaster, as he'd had cause to discover.

"Ziggy doesn't have any data on that," Al countered, with no originality whatsoever. "He predicts there is a 77 chance that you are here to help a guy called…", he nudged Ziggy's com-link, which squealed and blinked, "William Donahue, one of the construction maintenance workers. According to the records he is going to disappear sometime between tomorrow and Tuesday morning."

Sam's face fell at the word 'disappear'. It was going to be another one of **those** Leaps.

"Don't do this to me, Al. _How_ does he disappear?"

"We don't know how, Sam. You'll just have to keep your eyes and ears open and get as close as you can to Donahue. I'll go back and see what else Zig can dig up. Run a few scenarios. Catch you later."

Sam gave Al a look that said 'The more things change, the more they stay the same!'

Al knew exactly what it meant.

Usually at this point, Al would just summon up his doorway and vanish unceremoniously back to the Imaging Chamber. For some reason, which even he could not explain, this time he felt a compulsion to turn to Sam and say:

"Take care of yourself, partner." He tried to make it seem light-hearted by pretending to shoot Sam with his cigar, firing from the hip in best cowboy tradition.


	5. Chapter 2

Chapter Two 

The tenement block was not in the best part of town, nor yet was it in the worst. It was sturdy and well maintained. The landlords cared enough to keep the paintwork looking fresh and graffiti free, the garbage disposals working and the locks unbroken. You could feel as safe there as anywhere in L.A., except perhaps for a penthouse in Beverley Hills.

Caitlin Donahue wouldn't have swapped her fifth storey home for one of those penthouse suites anyway. As long as she had her Bill and little Sean, she was in Paradise Towers. So what if the elevator broke down once in a while? It kept them fit. And the neighbors were all very friendly, from Juanita the Puerto-Rican in number 7, to the Cosbys next door.

The rooms may be small, but she preferred to think of them as cozy. She took pride in keeping them neat and clean, but still 'lived-in'. On the whole they were a happy family, and they seldom argued. Nothing you could call a real row. Which was all the more reason why this current exchange of words was tearing her apart.

"Please let it drop, Bill." She pleaded. "It's none of our business. Just do your job, get your pay, and come home and forget it. We don't want any trouble, especially now." She patted her swollen waistline in a conspiratorial way.

"But what if I'm right, Cat?" he persisted, "Think of the consequences. Think how many people could be affected. It's our duty to stop them.'

"Then go to the police." Caitlin begged, tears streaming down her face.

"And tell them what? I haven't any proof, Cat. I'd lose my job and probably achieve nothing. I could make things worse. I have to find out the truth."

"They're too powerful, love. You are getting mixed up in something way above our heads. I'm scared."

He lifted her chin so that her eyes met his.

"I promise, I'll be careful." He planted a kiss on her forehead; wiping her tears gently with his broad, square thumbs.

"Gotta go now, love. Chin up. Things will work out fine, you'll see." He bent down and picked up his son on one muscular arm, tousling his hair with the other. "You be a big little man and look after your Mom for me, now, do you hear, Sean?" he said. His son hugged him tightly and nodded, then giggled and said:

"Ride, Daddy, ride."

"Okay, sport. Just to the elevator, then." His father laughed. He lifted the boy on to his powerful shoulders and strode out of the apartment. At the elevator, he lowered the lad gently to the ground and watched until he'd slipped his hand tightly into his mothers.

Really, he was a very lucky man, he thought: A good job, a wonderful wife and son, and a baby on the way. He hoped it would be a girl this time, but didn't really mind, as long as it was healthy.

He had a comfortable home and good friends. Perhaps Cat was right; it was foolish to rock the boat when he couldn't even be sure his suspicions had any foundation in truth. Maybe it was just the product of an over-active imagination and too many late night cop shows. He put out his hand to stop the elevator. 'We shouldn't be fighting like this,' he mused, 'it isn't good for Cat in her condition. I'll go back and tell her that I'll forget the whole thing.'

But as his fingers were about to make contact with the button he hesitated again. How could he live with himself if it turned out that he was right? How would he feel if it were his kids mixed up with this sort of thing and he found out someone could have stopped it?

He let his hand drop to his side and the elevator continued to descend. 'I won't rush into anything yet.' He decided. 'Just see if I can find out a bit more.'

He wondered if he dared to confide in David Beckett. He had always been friendly, and more importantly he seemed like a man that Bill could trust. There weren't too many of those around at the moment.

So far he'd said nothing to anyone but Caitlin. He would test the water with David, see if he had noticed anything, and then take it from there. Probably Beckett would be able to convince him once and for all that he was talking nonsense – it was impossible – or if not, perhaps he could help Bill to get to the bottom of it. Either way, he would no longer have to carry the burden alone.

Having made his resolve, Bill felt better. He would have liked to share his decision with Caitlin, try to put her mind at ease, but if he went back now he would be late, and he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Following Al's somewhat bizarre exit, Sam tried to ignore his mounting sense of foreboding and concentrate on getting into character. A more detailed examination of the equipment soon gave him a sound working knowledge of the system, enough for him to perform David's job competently.

He finished the report and set about trying to discover where it should be delivered. He found himself hoping that Ruggiero would be out chewing someone else's ear. That was one acquaintanceship that he was in no hurry to renew.

Sam made his way to the front of the complex and stepped outside into a bright, hot summer's day. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the natural light. He paused to draw in a deep breath of fresh air. He hadn't fully realized just how stuffy it had been inside and there had been that faint aroma that he couldn't place, but he was sure didn't belong. It felt good to have the sun on his face, even if the sweat was starting to soak through his shirt.

Getting his bearings, he realized the need for the hard-hat and heavy boots. The building site itself was typical of the breed, with mud everywhere. He seemed to remember that the first '94 earthquake had been followed by major flooding and mudslides, particularly in the Malibu region. This seemed to be a smaller version of the same mess.

He couldn't fail to be impressed by the machinery out here. It was immense and powerful. Huge cranes, scaffolding and steel girders punctuated the skyline. The machinery was of such enormity that he felt positively Lilliputian by comparison. The cement mixer alone had an aperture easily one and a half meters in diameter, the bowl – hugely rounded as a brandy glass – was as capacious as a two-man mini-sub.

Each machine had been ingeniously set up to allow most of the construction to take place with the minimum of human supervision. He was enough of an engineer to admire the brains behind this set-up, although the humanitarian in him spared a thought for all those workers made redundant by the process.

Out here there were a couple more workers in hard hats. One was tinkering with spanners and screwdrivers, obviously completing the manual tests, which complemented his technical ones. He would have to tread carefully again now. He didn't know if David knew or liked these colleagues. One of them could even be William Donahue, the man he had Leaped in to protect, according to Ziggy. He deemed it safest at this point to let them make the first contact, if he could get away with it.

The second man was watching the first, and had the word 'Foreman' emblazoned on his hard hat. Sam was grateful as ever for any clues, subtle or not. The foreman was somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, thickset, with a square jaw covered with the rough stubble of about two days growth. The broad nose had been broken in at least two places. He looked as if he could have stepped straight out of a wrestling ring.

The man doing all the work was squat and paunchy, his ample beer gut spilling over the belt on his jeans. Yet his face was pleasant enough, the eyes bright with a hint of laughter. It was reassuring that not everyone in this place had the air of having come hot foot from an identity parade. Although if there was one lesson that Sam had learnt during the course of his Leaping, it was that you should never judge people solely by appearances. He'd faced enough prejudice in his time to be convinced of that. After all, **he** was never what he seemed at all!

Sam wondered again what David Beckett looked like. He had assumed many guises in the countless Leaps he had so far notched up – old men, pregnant women, Neanderthal frat boys, priests and hit men, people who were blind or disabled. The only element constant to all was the fact that they had a problem to solve, a wrong to be righted. Each one brought its own challenges and its own rewards, and with a few notable exceptions the physical appearance of Sam's host was relatively incidental. Only Sam was reminded of a line from a poet, something about 'the gift to give us – to see ourselves as others see us.' It seemed very pertinent to him somehow.

The foreman turned his attention from the overweight worker to Sam/David. He raised a huge hairy hand with short square fingers:

"You all done yet, Beckett?" he yelled, "If that takes you past your shift you won't get overtime you know."

'That figures.' Thought Sam, but what he said was:

"All done, Chief." And hoped it was the right sort of title to give the gorilla. He'd have to find out his name at some stage.

"Then don't keep Mr. Ruggiero waiting any longer." The big man snarled, pointing to an office block at the front of the site. Sam smiled in silent thanks; even an ape could be a mine of useful information.

"On my way." With a wave of his hand, David Beckett hurried to submit his report and end his shift. That particular piece of information had been both welcome and daunting to Sam. He was pleased because it meant that he would have the leisure to stand back and reflect, the freedom to discover more about his current assignment, unhindered by the need to perform tasks for which he was only generally qualified. Conversely, it was daunting to be leaving work, because it is hard to go home when you don't have the faintest idea where you live, or how you got to work that morning. Still, one thing at a time, he told himself. There was the report to deliver first.

He made his way across to the office block. It was tall and imposing, consisting largely of tinted glass panels. The huge doors opened in response to a sensor in the floor. Before he entered, however, he took an excessively long time to clean his mud-stained boots on the heavy-duty mat placed outside for the purpose. While thus occupied he took the opportunity to study his reflection, finally finding out what he looked like.

Somehow, the face that stared back at him was exactly as he had imagined it would be. David Beckett was in his mid-twenties, average height, and average build. The face was small and rounded, owlish if anything. The hair was mousy brown, cropped short and neat. He was clean-shaven, the expression was of a boyish grin, and it was possible to believe he had not needed to shave very long anyway. He was so ordinary as to be wholly unremarkable, a face that could get lost in a crowd of three. In fact, thought Sam, all it needed was to put him in a pair of thick-rimmed squarish glasses and he could pass for any mild-mannered American boy – Clark Kent type. Yeah, that was it, he was the mild-mannered computer buff now, but Sam would have bet his ticket home that before this Leap was over he would be expected to transform himself into SUPERMAN, staging some dramatic feat in the nick of time. It usually went something like that.

Having finished his introspection, he triggered the doors and went inside. The interior was just as grandiose as he would have expected. The plush wine colored carpet that adorned the foyer bore an elaborate gold logo with the initials RSC emblazoned on it. Sam felt it belonged in National Theatre in London, or in Stratford-upon-Avon, where the Royal Shakespeare Company would have displayed it with equal pride.

Facing him was a huge polished wooden desk, behind which sat a receptionist who asked him his business in dulcet tones. She was dressed smartly in a very demure cream-colored suit, which accentuated the rich auburn of her immaculately coiffured hair. Her make up flattered her all the more for being understated. She wore small pearl earrings and a matching string of pearls circled her lilywhite throat. Very striking, thought Sam, and she knows it. She was not his type, but he could well imagine Al's reaction. Was she David's type? Out of his league, Sam decided. She confirmed his theory with a smile - it was friendly, but strictly professional. There was definitely nothing personal in it. But then, why should there be? Sam reflected that David was not exactly Tom Cruise in the looks department. Then it occurred to him to wonder if David had a wife waiting for him at home. A surreptitious glance at his hand revealed the absence of a wedding band, but that in itself was inconclusive. It

seemed unlikely, and he fervently hoped not. Dr Samuel Beckett was not the sort of man who condoned sleeping with other men's wives, especially when the lady in question was unaware of the infidelity. It was the worst violation he could imagine committing. He had faced this moral dilemma on a number of occasions before, his excuses often causing awkward complications. It was a situation to be avoided whenever possible.

The receptionist asked him again what he wanted. She obviously resented the intrusion of common laborers in muddy boots, so out of place in her elegant environment.

"Mr. Ruggiero wanted this report right away." Sam informed the girl, who according to the polished wooden triangular wedge on her desk should be referred to as Ms Krystal Fleischer. He expected her to extend a well-manicured finger to the intercom system and announce his presence, but instead she stretched her hand towards him and inclined her head.

"Mr. Ruggiero left instructions that you're to give it to me. He is in conference at the moment and not to be disturbed."

Sam offered up a silent prayer of thanks that he had been spared another audience with The Boss, as he handed over his report and took his leave.

Now all he had to do was find a home to go to.

At this stage, fate – or whatever – smiled on him as it sometimes did. The guy with the paunch met him at the gate and they hung up their hats and punched out together. Sam took the opportunity to sneak a glance at the man's card and get a name to go with the face – Frank Bannerman. Sam smiled and nodded, hoping to get the other man to start a conversation. It worked.

"Your old relic out of action again, David?" Frank made a sweeping gesture round the parking lot. He spoke with a Texan drawl. (First name terms then, noted Sam.)

"Guess so." Replied Sam, sincerely.

"Need a lift home?"

"That'd be great, Frank!" not too much enthusiasm, Sam warned himself. It wasn't supposed to be that big a deal. Probably happened quite often. Still, his two most immediate problems solved in one sentence was pretty neat going by any standards. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a bad Leap after all.

He lagged behind just a little, enough so that he could get to the right vehicle without arousing suspicion. Sam had, from necessity, learnt to be quite devious- in order to elicit from others certain basic information, which he should, as whomever he was impersonating, know full well. Not that there were many alternatives in this case. The place was a marvel of automation, and robots don't drive cars. There were as many vacant spaces on the lot as there were gaps in Sam's memory.

Sam was not surprised when Frank unlocked the door to a beaten up old brown Dodge pick-up. Two tone brown, chocolate and rust. Sam clambered in beside him and buckled up.

Frank began chatting amiably, and Sam did his best to make non-committal replies, whilst trying to glean as much information as he could from his chauffeur. It was a boon that Frank obviously liked the sound of his own voice, and was not at all put out by his companion's preference for listening.

"Don't let the old Bull-frog get you down," he was saying.

'Who?' thought Sam.

Frank continued unabated "Or is he Bull-dozer among you technical types? Either way, he isn't so bad once you get used to him, if you can get him off the 'No Overtime' subject."

Sam was a brilliant mathematician. Even he knew that 2 + 2 made 4. The foreman's name must be Bull, and he wasn't particularly popular with his subordinates. No surprises there.

Frank was proving to be a very useful ally. He wondered if he could use him to find out anything about Donahue.

"Yeah, right," countered Sam, "I've known worse." He had too.

Without seeming to, he was paying close attention to the route they were traveling. From the direction of the sun and the time of day, he judged that they were headed roughly south. He wanted to be able to find his way to work again for his next shift. It was unlikely that he was there to get David on to the unemployment queue. He decided to impose.

"Say, any chance of a lift back in next shift?" he asked, "I think my car's gonna be off the road for a while yet." He hoped this sounded convincing and not too out of character. He was surprised to find he recognized that they were now traveling along the infamous Mulholland Drive.

"I'd like to oblige, David," replied Frank, and his tone suggested that he genuinely meant it, "but I'm not due in again until Monday. I thought you were supposed to be the golden boy at tomorrow's photo opportunity, basking in all the glory?"

'Goofed again' thought Sam, starting to miss Al again.

"Yeah, of course. One time they have to agree overtime, huh?" he risked, wondering if he were digging himself into a hole.

Frank laughed, a deep-throated chuckle. He seemed willing to let the slip pass. Sam changed the subject and asked after Frank's family. He hadn't overlooked the plain gold ring on the man's stubby finger, and he wanted to get back onto safe territory.

"Oh, Mary's positively blossoming," Frank enthused, with obvious pride. "She's never looked or felt better. Little Frankie's really hoping for a brother of course, he can't wait."

Sam liked this guy. He was clearly a solid, dependable family man.

"…and naturally Jenny wants a sister. She keeps practicing on her dolls, bless her." He chortled heartily at the mental image he'd evidently conjured up for himself. He was really on a roll now.

"You know Cat, Bill Donahue's wife is expecting too? She's due in a couple of weeks. We've got a little bet going as to which rugrat's gonna come first. Some coincidence, huh?"

"Right." Put in Sam, good-naturedly. Now he was really getting somewhere. 'Frank, you are a gem,' he thought, 'and wait till I lay all this on Al. I'll show him!'

"When's Bill on again?" he ventured, "I promised to lend him a magazine." Surely that couldn't be too far out of line?

"You really have got your head in the clouds today, ain't you, boy?" remonstrated Frank, "He's on this afternoon, but he drew the lucky straw to be at the shindig tomorrow, too, remember? Some guys have all the luck. I envy you both. Its gonna be quite an occasion. You'll probably even get your faces on TV. Might have known old skinflint Bull wouldn't let us all have a piece of the action, though. Oh well, spare a thought for us poor Cinderella's who can't go to the Ball while you're supping champagne, won't you?"

"Sure thi--- LOOK OUT!"

Sam's lightening reflexes were in operation again. He spent his whole life expecting the unexpected. Now, suddenly, out of nowhere, he spotted a gleaming red Trans-Am careering towards them at break-neck speed, weaving all over the road.

Frank froze.

Sam leant across and grabbed the wheel, struggling frantically for control, trying to pull the pick-up in to the side of the road, out of the path of the red demon, which was bearing down on them for a full head-on collision, its tapered hood looking like an arrow seeking out its target. He wasn't quite quick enough. As the vehicle responded and swung around, the monster caught it a glancing blow on the offside rear corner, sending it spinning around wildly, back across the road, heading for the northbound verge.

The Trans-Am, barely slowed at all by the impact, now hurtled straight towards a dark-blue Station Wagon, which had been following them.

Everything seemed to switch into slow motion then. Sam wrestled with the wheel; fighting to control the skidding of the truck, at the same time coaxing Frank to push down on the brake. It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually it slewed to a halt on the gravel at the side of the road, with a shattering of windshield glass. Sam instinctively folded his arms across his face to protect his eyes, simultaneously nudging Frank downwards. He dared to breathe again.

Their own immediate danger over, Sam's attention was drawn to the scene outside. The Trans-Am and the Station Wagon collided with a squeal of brakes, a blaring of horns, a sickening thud and the crunching of metal. The once sleek red sports car now bucked like a spooked horse and then rolled, coming to rest on its side, a crumpled heap. From where he sat, Sam couldn't make out the condition of the other vehicle, but he guessed that it must be pretty bad. Other traffic from both directions tried frantically to avoid the wreckage and everything was noise and confusion.

Sam switched to automatic pilot. A quick examination revealed that neither he nor Frank had sustained any injuries, beyond a couple of scratches. He told Frank to sit tight and wait. The older man stared at him, bewildered, and then nodded.

Sam kicked his door open and sprinted round the truck towards the carnage. From slow motion, events now flipped into fast forward. He didn't stop to think if David knew any first aid techniques. It didn't matter. Sam was a highly qualified, thoroughly trained, skilled doctor. He was here, and he had to help.

Above all the other noise a woman's shrill scream pierced the air. Not once, but over and over again. Scream; breath; scream; breath, scream…. It made Sam's blood run cold.

He took stock of the situation at a glance. Other cars had stopped, and people were standing around staring in shocked horror. The physician in Sam knew that nobody should be moved until their injuries were properly assessed. The physicist knew they didn't have that luxury. The smell of gasoline stung his nostrils and pricked his eyes, tinged with the unmistakable scent of electrical overheating. Those people were in a powder keg, just waiting for the spark. It was unlikely to keep them waiting long. Sam took charge.

"GET THEM OUT!" he ordered, with such a voice of authority that several of the spectators jolted into alertness and headed for the Station Wagon. They were all too scared to approach the up-ended Trans-Am. The fumes drove them back, along with their own sense of self-preservation.

Sam had no such compunction. He clambered up. The passenger door was swinging on one hinge. He ripped it aside, desperation lending him strength. Then he leant into the car, the woman's screams making his ears ring.

He slapped her.

Not brutally – Sam was no more capable of abusing a woman than he was of flunking an exam – but just hard enough to make her gasp and quieten.

She was hanging, limp as a rag doll, downwards towards the driver, suspended by her safety belt. A dark angry swelling had come up on the side of her face, obscuring her eye, marring her delicate features. Other than that, she was deathly pale.

Balancing his body on the sill of the car, he reached in. he spoke to her all the while, his voice calm, reassuring. He was trying to keep her from going deeper into shock, keep her with him, while his hands worked furiously at the catch that held her firm. The fumes were getting stronger by the second, burning in the back of his throat, making his eyes water. He fumbled one handed with her belt, supporting her with the other lest she fall deeper into the well when he released her. The jolt when it finally gave caused her to scream again, but it was a strangled cry this time, not so piercing. 'Keep talking,' Sam told himself, 'keep moving.' He bent further over her and shifted his right arm down to cradle her legs so that he could lift her out, trying hard to maintain his equilibrium so that he didn't topple in and squash her. His hand made contact with something hot and wet and sticky. She was bleeding copiously, and did not lift as easily as he had expected. She squealed in pain.

'Oh boy, has she ever got a set of lungs on her.' Thought Sam fleetingly.

"Sorry," he muttered, trying to assess the damage. It was bad - very bad. Somehow, the gearshift lever had shattered, and the broken shaft had impaled her leg.

"This is going to hurt," he apologized, aware of the monumental understatement, "but I have to get you out quickly, do you understand?"

She bit her lip till it bled, but nodded.

"Good girl, here goes."

'Faint heart never won fair lady.' Quoth Sam, whose shy nature had lost him many a date in his youth.

He took a deep breath.

He grasped her firmly and pulled, keeping her as level as possible to minimize further tissue damage. This time the scream had a name to it. Her hand pointed feebly back into the pit of the car and she yelled "**Peter!"**

Sam never stopped talking to her, soothingly. Now he promised her he would go back for Peter. At long last helping hands reached up to take her from him, as his efforts shamed others into pitching in.

"Gently does it." he warned them. He hoped that she didn't have spinal injuries. He could have crippled her for life, jerking her out like that.

He turned his attention now to the driver, slumped apparently unconscious at what was now the bottom of the car.

"Can you here me, Peter?" he asked, not really expecting a reply. "I'm going to get you out."

'Though the good Lord alone knows how.' He added, to himself.

It was a long way down. Sam tossed up whether to climb down inside or try to do it from the edge. There wasn't much room. He didn't think it would help anyone if he got himself stuck. There was a stench now of burning rubber and smoke. From the corner of his eye he saw the Station Wagon beginning to burn.

Time was running out.

He stretched in to release the second belt, gripping the roof of the car with one hand in an effort to steady himself. He ended up almost upside down, and found himself remembering that he had once Leapt into a trapeze artist. That little nightmare suddenly seemed like's child's play compared to his current contortions, but it proved inspirational. He eased himself back out and grabbed the belt he'd already released from the woman. He used it now like a safety rope, twisting it around his ankle to anchor him in place, leaving both hands free to help Peter. Then he swung back down.

He somehow managed to maneuver himself so that he could get both arms behind the man, bringing them up under his armpits. He clasped his hands together firmly across Peter's chest and heaved. It was like hauling a sack of coals, but inch-by-inch Sam was raising him up, straining muscles protesting, and chest heaving with the effort.

Then came the point where his anchor became a fetter, and hindered him from backing out altogether. He jarred his ankle trying to work himself free from the strap and get them both away. Precious seconds ticked by.

Finally the helping hands were there again, untangling him, pulling them both clear. Cheers and applause from the crowd barely registered to Sam, who was aware only of the overpowering smell, the fumes that threatened to choke him. Strong hands took hold of Peter's legs, and between them they headed for the safety of the verge. Sam favored his left leg a little as he ran, but he was pretty sure that it was just badly twisted, not sprained.

They had almost made it when the fireball exploded.

The force of the blast knocked them off their feet. Sam could feel the hairs on the back of his neck being singed by the searing heat. Black smoke engulfed everyone and there was a lot of coughing and spluttering, as he staggered back to his feet. Sam's eyes were smarting, moisture blurring his vision. He blinked, and pressed the base of his thumbs across his eyelids to blot away the stinging tears. Then he got his second wind and was back to business.

Time returned to real time.

Peter was still unconscious. Sam felt for a pulse, but his hand was shaking and he couldn't be sure whether or not he'd found one. The man who had helped to carry him was shaken but unhurt.

"Can you do CPR?" Sam asked him.

A nod.

"Good." He gave the man a quick pat on the shoulder, in thanks and encouragement, "Go to it!"

Then he hurried over to the woman. She was calling to her… husband?… fiancé?… lover?… brother?… Peter, weakly and moaning in pain. Her pupils were dilated; she was slipping. People were standing around helplessly. One had propped her head up with a sports bag, trying to be kind.

"No, no, NO." complained Sam. "She's in shock. We've got to keep the head _down_, help the blood supply to the brain."

"I…. I ….I'm sorry, I didn't know." Came the abashed reply.

Sam regretted his harsh tone, but wished that people who 'didn't know' would leave well alone: The road to hell and all that. He carefully moved the bag, taking out a towel, which he rolled up and placed under her injured leg, which was still oozing blood, staining her floral dress.

Sam was talking to her again, trying to focus her mind, away from the pain, away from the horror and the fear. At the same time he was pulling off his shirt, ripping the buttons. He shredded it into strips and bound her leg in a tourniquet. Then he bunched another strip into a tight wad, which he rammed forcefully into the gaping wound. She yelled.

"Sorry, sorry," he soothed, yet still he pressed down heavily, "the pressure will help to staunch the bleeding." He explained, examining her gently for other injuries.

She whimpered.

"It's okay," he spoke reassuringly, "the worst is over now."

'Keep her talking,' Sam admonished himself, 'keep her with it.'

"What's your name? Mines – David."

"T-T-Trudi."

"That's a lovely name. My best friend's sister's called Trudi."

He was inordinately glad that he had been able to remember that.

She smiled a wan smile.

"That's it, hang in there, Trudi. You're doing fine." His voice was filled with compassion.

"Peter? Peter!" her eyes darted wildly from side to side, her voice rose to panic pitch. She tried to sit up but Sam held her down. Her resistance was short-lived.

"Calm down, it's all right, we got him out." Sam smoothed a stray lock of her naturally blond hair out of her eyes, clear blue eyes drowning in a pool of tears. He looked up at the man he had left working at resuscitating Peter. His companion shook his head slowly, the eyes lowered. Damn.

She would have to be told, of course - but not now, not yet. She wasn't strong enough. Sam hoped fervently that he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her.

"Where on earth are those paramedics?" he asked no one in particular. "Hasn't anyone called them?" this last incredulously.

"They're on their way." Said a voice in the crowd; a Texan voice. Sam looked up to see Frank's awe-struck face. He'd forgotten about Frank.

Trudi whimpered again.

"Hush now," crooned Sam, with the tone of a mother calming her child after a nightmare. He released his grip on her leg for a moment, was pleased to see the bleeding had slowed, but not stopped. He pressed down again. Keep her talking.

After countless eons, Sam eventually heard the wail of sirens. The whole incident had only lasted a matter of minutes, yet it seemed like a lifetime. Perhaps that was because Sam had been through many lifetimes in the past few years. Measuring time was not as straightforward for him as it was for most people. Perhaps it was just that moments of stress made time hard to measure.

Now the crowds were parting, letting the experts through. Capable hands moved him aside and strapped Trudi onto a gurney. Put in a saline drip, set up a bloodline - standard procedure. He watched in a daze. They were thanking him for a great job. He'd done all the right things…

He sighed and shrugged dismissively, watching as the pathetic little figure disappeared into the waiting ambulance.

Frank came and clasped his hand, slapping him on the back enthusiastically. He was gushing, but Sam didn't hear.

Suddenly the enormity of what had happened hit him like a jolt of lightening. Now that he no longer had anything urgent to occupy his mind, it struck him what he had done, how close they had come. He found he was shaking uncontrollably from head to foot.

Sam wrenched himself free from Frank's grip and turned aside. He bent forward, grasping his knees. Then he retched.


	6. Chapter 3

Chapter Three 

'Meanwhile, back at the ranch.' mused Al, blowing the smoke from the end of his gun/cigar as he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber. Although meanwhile was a rather meaningless phrase in the circumstances. Time appeared to move differently back at Project Headquarters. He might leave Sam for a matter of minutes, getting back before his friend had a chance to notice his absence, yet in the interim spend an hour or so in conference with Tina, Gushie and Sammy-Jo.

When it came to the actual Leaping it was even more pronounced. To Sam, it felt as if he rushed headlong from one situation to another, no sooner out of the frying pan than he was into the fire, punctuated only by a timeless moment in a limbo of blue haze which appeared to serve no purpose other than to erase some of his hard earned memories, making him once again a clean slate. To Al and the Project personnel, however, there were gaps of hours, sometimes even weeks, while they tracked him down again. Al had tried to explain it to Sam when he first began Leaping, but found himself wishing it were Sam explaining it to him. After all, Dr Beckett was the only one who really understood the whole thing.

When his brain wasn't magnafoozled.

It was hard for Al to keep track of time: Sam liked to make fun of him when he got his tenses mixed. Al was rooted in Project time. To him, Sam took his first Leap in May 1999, and had been flitting from life to life for the past three and a half years - over a hundred now. Al's days were still linear; he could cross them off on the calendar. He could celebrate Christmas in the sure and certain knowledge that New Year would follow the next week. (How hollow had been their celebration of the new millennium in the New Mexican bunker, without Sam Beckett there to share it with them.) For Sam, his days were a tangled ball of string, intertwined and moving in a helter-skelter of loops anytime between 1953 (the year of his birth) and the present.

Al wondered what would happen when his friend finally made the Leap Home and their time lines merged again. He still insisted on thinking in terms of 'when'. It would be a betrayal to start thinking 'if'. Would Sam come back to the present, Al's present, with four or more years of his own life missing, like a patient waking from a long coma? Or would he Leap back in moments after he left, like the children returning from Narnia in the CS Lewis tales. If so, where would that leave the Project crew and the years they had put in monitoring the Leaps?

Would they have any memory of the Leaping?

Would Sam?

And what about Ziggy?

Al decided that this train of thought was getting him nowhere, except perhaps the bottom of the aspirin bottle (it may once have been the whiskey bottle, but Sam had cured him of that years ago). He hastened his step towards the Waiting Room.

He always dreaded this bit.

David Beckett had been doing his job, minding his own business, when he had suddenly found himself sitting on a bed in a stark white room.

Hospital?

Mental Institution?

Spaceship?

His reaction was typical of those whose lives had been 'borrowed' by Sam. His mind was full of questions. When the strange little man in the gaudy green suit came in, he hoped he would finally get some answers.

Al decided this one could cope with a little of the truth.

From what Ziggy had just been telling him of David's personal history, he had many things in common with the man who shared his surname. Not least of which was the fact that they were both quite brilliant in several fields.

David Beckett listened to the implausible tale, at first politely, then with growing interest. The more he heard, the less implausible it seemed. But one thing he didn't understand. How come no one noticed the substitution? Al brought him a mirror. He had explained this once or twice before – when it had been felt the visitor wouldn't go mad at seeing themselves reflected as a handsome man, in his forties, with a touch of grey at the front of his brown hair, green eyes with a hint of brown in them, eyes that were deep and sincere and warm.

Al found it hard to look into those eyes. He found it the hardest of all.

Everyone around Sam perceived him as the person he was pretending to be. Everyone at the Project saw the visitor as Dr Sam Beckett.

Only Al could see both people at the same time.

He always (since Gloria) retained an awareness of Sam-as-Sam when he looked at the stranger Sam was in, could see Sam's eyes looking out of the unfamiliar face. Likewise, he could see the stranger in Sam's body at home. He could picture both people in almost the same moment. The duality was disconcerting. Sam and Ziggy had tried to explain that it had to do with the merging of their brainwave patterns, the neuro-cells that they had combined when creating Ziggy. It was a part of the process that allowed Al - through the Imaging Chamber - to home in on Sam, wherever or whenever he was, and appear to visit him (although he never actually left first base). No one, least of all Sam, knew how hard it could sometimes be for Al to look at two people - both and yet neither his friend Dr Beckett - and long to have him back as one single, uncomplicated person.

'You should have been the Gemini, Sam.' Thought Al, ruefully.

Now, Al was trying to explain to David Beckett, who was studying the unfamiliar reflection with curiosity, but not alarm.

"….so you see, your aura surrounds Sam, as his aura surrounds you." The words echoed in Al's mind. Suddenly he remembered using them to explain to someone once before. He rather thought it was himself. Now that had been _very_ unnerving, seeing Sam/seeing himself as a young Ensign nicknamed Bingo.

The explanation seemed to satisfy David, at least on this point, and he willingly traded information about himself and his work and his colleague Bill Donahue. He had modesty in common with Sam too, by all accounts.

"So, what happens now?" he asked at last.

'That,' thought Al 'is the $64,000 question.'

He didn't usually take the COM link into the Waiting Room; it was supposed to be left in the Imaging Chamber for security. It was too anachronistic for most visitors to handle. This time, he had slipped it into his jacket pocket absentmindedly. It squealed at him now and he took it out automatically. He started guiltily when he realized what he had done, and then he thought:

'What the heck, this guy is from '95 and a computer whiz, it's not gonna phase him any.'

It was his first mistake.

David watched in fascination as the small hand held device flashed first red, then yellow, then pink, then blue. 'I can sing a rainbow,' he thought irrelevantly. He tried to analyze the strange noises it was making. Al took an even bigger gamble.

"It's okay, Ziggy, go ahead. I think you can speak freely this time."

Mistake number two.

A disembodied voice: obviously computer generated, but with a distinct personality programmed in. Not quite male nor yet female, but a little of both. Evidently highly advanced. David was beginning to enjoy this.

"Admiral," Ziggy was saying, with just a hint of urgency, "I rather think Doctor Beckett could use you _right now_."

"Excellent!" enthused David.

"What?" Al was addressing Ziggy, but David was fired up now.

"Any chance I could have a look at him/her/it, do you think?" he urged.

"Huh? Oh maybe later, kid." Al didn't like Ziggy's tone. He waved dismissively to David Beckett and headed quick march back to the Imaging Chamber.

Al opened his door onto a typical bachelor pad. Posters of scantily clad beauties a la Baywatch and other such shows (which held Al's attention for a predictably long time) vied for position on the walls with posters of Sonic the Hedgehog and Street Fighter. The sink was full of coffee cups, the bin overflowing with beer cans and screwed up papers, and the freezer was crammed with pizzas and microwave TV dinners. A large study area boasted many technical manuals, a liberal dose of science fiction, a bible and a prayer book. Sam really did have a lot in common with this guy. He should feel right at home here. The video collection included every episode of all Star Trek franchises to date, and a host of other titles, many of which Al had never heard of. A corner unit groaned under the weight of monitors and printers and scanners and the latest high tech, memory-expanded computer '95 had seen - and a Sega Genesis. This chap was pretty single minded. He worked computers; he played computers; he practically ate, drank and slept computers. He would have a ball with Ziggy, if he could be allowed access. Outside the window, Al saw the old two-tone blue T-bird David had mentioned to him. It was being lovingly restored. The boy did have another interest after all. Al could identify with that hobby for more than with all the technical stuff.

The one noticeable absence from the room was Sam himself.

Having absorbed the atmosphere while waiting for his friend to appear, Al was about to extend his search when he heard a chain flush and the sound of running water. Al had shared some very intimate moments with Sam, had even witnessed him apparently in the advanced stages of labor, but he didn't invade privacy unless circumstances demanded it.

"Sam, is that you in there?" Al let him know he was not alone. His tone was light, mocking – as if anyone else could have heard him!

Sam opened the door, walked right through his friend, oblivious, and threw himself down on the bed, covering his eyes with the crook of his right arm. The red plaid work shirt was missing, replaced by a black T-shirt bearing a picture of Leonard Nimoy as Spock giving the Vulcan salute, and the phrase "Live Long and Prosper" in large yellow letters beneath.

'Amen to that' thought Al.

Aloud he said, "If you want to be alone, I'll go…" he adopted his 'I'm offended' tone. He was extremely perturbed by Sam's complete failure to register his presence, even to the extent of walking around his image. Sam was usually pleased to see him, and Ziggy seemed to think….

He was about to make some witty jibe to break the ice, when something made him stop. He took a closer look at his friend.

"You okay, Sam? You don't look so good."

When Sam didn't reply straight away, Al looked around some more, pretending not to care. A pair of jeans hung over the side of the bath, obviously freshly washed. A bottle of disinfectant sat close by, the lid still off.

It was not like Sam to be that untidy. Al surmised that Sam had been vomiting. Now he was getting really worried. This Leap had made him nervous from the start and Sam's withdrawal was the icing on the cake.

"What is it, buddy?" he coaxed, "Are you ill? What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing much." Replied Sam at last, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Uh-oh." Al's brow furrowed, he bit down hard on his cigar.

"When you get sarcastic, things must be mighty bad."

It was not a trait Sam was prone to, and it didn't suit him. Al made pretence of sitting on the computer chair. He leant forward towards Sam, defying him to ignore him. He wished Ziggy had told him _why_ she had thought Sam would want him around.

He felt most unwelcome.

It looked to Al as if Sam wanted very much to be left alone.

But now he was here he was not about to let go until he got to the bottom of it. He thought about punching some buttons on the COM link. It was almost second nature to him, a nervous habit like nail biting, especially when he couldn't think of anything else to do, and despite the knowledge that it was often a futile gesture, since Ziggy had a habit of taking a vow of silence just when she was needed most.

Rather like Sam seemed to have done now.

Al decided the gesture might antagonize Sam in his present mood. He felt he had to give his friend a little more time.

He could wait.

He was good at it.

He'd had a lot of practice.

Sam sighed - a deep, heartfelt sigh that tore at Al. His friend was hurting, and he wanted to help. He didn't like Sam shutting him out like this.

Abruptly, Sam got up and went back to the bathroom. Al followed, his face lined with worry. For a moment he thought Sam was going to be sick again. Instead, he ran a sink full of cold water and began splashing his face with it, finally bending down and completely submerging his head for a long moment, as if trying to drown something out. Just when Al thought he would never come up for air, and opened his mouth to protest, Sam straightened up, his hair dripping wet. He shook it, doggy fashion, and Al backed off instinctively, as if he feared his suit would get drenched. Normally, that would have raised a smile at least, but Sam failed to react.

Sam exhaled forcefully, leaning heavily on the sink with both hands. He stared hard at David's reflection in the bathroom mirror. Al wondered what it was he saw there. Then Sam pulled himself abruptly out of his reverie and looked directly at Al.

"Sorry." It was curt, but he looked suitably ashamed of himself.

He reached for a towel, dried his face and walked back into the bed/sitting room, rubbing vigorously at his soaking wet hair.

"Feeling better?" only Al could manage that tone of voice: A mixture of true concern, petulance and remonstration.

"Sorry, Al." Sam said again, this time with more feeling. It was an unnecessary repetition. Al never stayed mad at Sam for long, nor yet the other way around. They were perfect foils for one another, alike in some ways, agreeing on many things, and absolute opposites in others. It was a good and lasting friendship, which both men had come to depend on – and not just because of the constraints of Leaping.

"Do you want to tell me about it now?" asked Al gently.

Sam did.

Every last horrifying, nightmarish detail, which Sam had not let himself consider at the time, but which kept playing back in his mind now that it was over. Al listened compassionately, without interrupting.

"I thought perhaps that was why I was here," Sam finished, "that I had Leaped-in to save them. But Peter died and I'm still here. I've failed, Al." The rest hung unspoken between them. If Sam failed, he didn't Leap. If he didn't Leap, he could never get Home. He was trapped. And worse yet, he'd let a man die. There was a look of utter anguish and despair on Sam's pale face.

Now, Al felt justified in punching the hand link. Lights winked on and off and the unit squeaked like a cartoon mouse.

"No, Sam," Al said, quietly, "Ziggy says you weren't here for them. She still predicts you are here to help Bill Donahue. Now it's 85.7. And get this, Sam." His tone brightened. Al had found the one piece of information that Sam would want to hear:

"Ziggy says that in the original history, they both died. Peter was dead on impact, his wife died when the car blew up. The guy in the Station wagon bought it first time round – and Frank too. You saved them, pal, you saved them all, **_and _**you saved Trudi from bleeding to death. You did good."

"Don't I always?" mumbled Sam bitterly, "But was it good enough?"

Al didn't have an answer for that one, so he remained silent. He sympathized profoundly with his friend, knew just how personally Sam had taken Peter's death, despite the fact that he was a total stranger. Then on top of that, the shocking realization that he had almost been cremated rescuing a corpse.

No wonder his friend was in such a state.

Al regretted his earlier petulance. Like ying to his yang, Sam had always been the more tactile member of the partnership. Al had spent most of his life believing that it was somehow less than manly to allow physical contact with anyone other than a lover. Sam's father, on the other hand, had taught him that a strong man need never be afraid to show his emotions. Hugs had played an important part in his upbringing, and he certainly didn't think any less of his father for it. That was probably why Sam had been chosen by Whoever or Whatever to be the Leaper, while Al was merely the Observer. Yet he'd observed enough by now to be at least halfway convinced that maybe Sam's way was sometimes better. He looked at his friend now and thought:

'Right about now, Samuel John Beckett old friend, you could do with a damned good hug.' To his surprise, he found it pained him immensely that he was not in a position to oblige.

He struggled to think of something comforting to say, but it all seemed woefully inadequate, so he changed the subject.

"You'd like your namesake, Sam," he opened, "He's really a very sweet guy."

'Yeah,' thought Sam, 'Just what I pictured, 'sweet'; As American as apple pie; Mild-mannered Clark Kent. I was right about the Superman bit too. Leaping tall buildings doesn't even begin to cover it.'

He'd been pacing throughout his narrative, now he sat heavily on the bed again. Despondently, he allowed himself to be drawn back into Al's renewed briefing. He listened to everything Al had learnt about David, and about his acquaintanceship with Bill Donahue. Apparently, David was friendly with just about everybody, but close to no one. He didn't talk down to the manual workers just because he was so smart, and they liked that. The more he heard, the more Sam thought that David sounded like a real 'goody-goody'. He told Al as much.

"…Is this guy for real or what? How am I supposed to live up to this sort of reputation?"

"Just be yourself, Sam." Al gave him a sideways glance, and reminded him none too gently that the same accusation had been leveled against Sam in his time. And the fact that Whoever or Whatever had chosen Sam for this Leaping business said something about **his** inherent 'goodness' too. Sam snarled at Al, holding his hands in a gesture of strangulation around what would have been Al's throat, had Al been there. In a voice full of mock menace, he growled:

"Don't push it, Al, this pussy-cat has got sharp claws."

Al accepted the rebuff, gratefully. Sam was getting back to his normal self (or as close to a normal self as he was likely to get, given the peculiarities of Leaping).

"According to David," Al went on, "he can't think of any reason why Bill should want to disappear. He's a family man…"

"…and his wife is expecting a baby any day now!" interrupted Sam triumphantly. "Is he worried about money, his job, anything like that? Gambling debts, maybe?"

"Not as far as David can tell. He says Bill works hard and is popular with the men. He adores his wife and son and is thrilled about the baby. We can't imagine why he'd desert them, especially now."

The implications of this gave Sam that sinking feeling again.

"So, what you're trying to tell me is – you can't really tell me anything useful, as per usual. I don't suppose you have any closer idea **when** either?"

"Ziggy's having trouble getting specific data." Al replied, as if it were something new.

Al did manage to supply a few mundane facts such as addresses, a detailed description of Bill so that Sam would know him when they met, that sort of thing. But he didn't seriously believe that anything he was telling Sam now would contribute significantly to the outcome of the Leap - Par for the course. Between what Al couldn't tell Sam because he didn't know, and what he wasn't allowed to tell Sam because of what Ziggy called the Rules of Leaping, they sometimes wondered why they bothered to expect any information at all. Yet thus far there had always been just enough – a hint here, a clue there, a vital fact coming to light in the nick of time. Whoever or Whatever controlled Sam's Leaps seemed to have it well planned. And after all, 'Quantum' could be defined as "required (sometimes), or desired (rarely) or ALLOWED (by whom?) amount" as the Latin scholar in Sam was well aware.

Didn't stop it being damned frustrating, though.


	7. Chapter 4

Chapter Four 

Bill Donahue reported for work on that Friday afternoon one minute late. After his hesitant start from home, his journey was further delayed by the fact that there had been a nasty accident on Mulholland Drive. Not that old Bullfrog would have been likely to accept that as an excuse. Unless you had personally lost at least one limb in the crash, you'd be expected to report for duty as required.

Bill had seen Frank's Pickup at the edge of the crash site. He felt guilty that he hadn't stopped to help, be sure that his friend was unhurt, but he daren't be late, and he didn't want to add to the congestion. Everything had seemed to be under control, the paramedics had arrived; the fire department had quenched the flaming vehicles.

Bill couldn't be sure, but he imagined he'd seen David Beckett by the side of the road. The guy looked shaken and white as a sheet.

Donahue made himself a mental note to call Frank at the end of the shift, see if everything was okay. Frank was a good man and a close family friend; he was genuinely concerned. If everything was fine, perhaps he could also find out some more about Beckett from Frank, who'd spent more time with him than Bill.

Oh, they had spoken on a number of occasions and the brainiac had always been very friendly – he'd even helped Bill get his truck going once when it had broken down- but it wouldn't hurt to know as much as possible about the man before he committed himself to discussing his worries with him. He had thought about confiding in Frank, he knew he could trust him, but Mary was expecting a couple of weeks after Cat, he didn't want them anxious too. If that had been Beckett on the road with Frank, it could be the opening he needed to get into conversation.

Bill found himself wishing it were Saturday, so that he could get the Press Conference over, get together with Beckett, do something. He wondered why he was attaching so much importance to Beckett. Yesterday, it would never have occurred to him to involve the computer expert, yet today… He couldn't explain it, but the more he thought about it the more he had an unshakable conviction that sharing his burden with David Beckett would somehow make everything all right. The time dragged.

He knew they couldn't find out much until after the Press Conference, too many people around, too much security. All he could do was rehearse in his mind what he would say when the opportunity finally came. Meanwhile, he went about his job diligently, and tried not to draw attention to himself.

He kept hoping that some other explanation would present itself.

That he had heard wrong before.

That he was imagining things.

It wasn't as if he had gone looking for trouble after all. He liked his job. He liked to believe the best of people too. But he had heard something, and now he was suspicious. He didn't think he was a coward. He could hold his own with the best of them, had fought his share of barroom brawls in his single days, he knew how to stand up for himself. But this was different; this was scary.

A little over half way through his shift, Bill got the feeling that he was being watched, but when he looked around he couldn't see anyone. The feeling persisted. Every move he made, it was as if someone was looking over his shoulder, studying him. It was unnerving.

'Snap out of it,' he told himself, 'you're getting paranoid.'

Yet still the feeling persisted, and he found himself trying to catch someone out, looking around suddenly, casting surreptitious glances out of the corner of his eye.

'Jeez, this guy is really spooked,' observed Al, to no one at all.

After his heart-rending visit with Sam at David's pad, he'd decided that this time there had to be something more positive he could do, something he could find out that would help his friend. He didn't like the feel of this Leap one bit.

So, he'd had Gushie centre him on Bill Donahue, the guy Ziggy maintained Sam was here to help. He hoped that he might get a hint as to why the man should disappear at such a crucial time to his family.

He'd found him hard at work.

Al had heard him exchange pleasantries with the one or two other men working around the site. He'd been polite and reserved with the foreman, a huge ape of a man called Bull. He'd told another worker that his wife was fine, thanks for asking, and they were all looking forward to the birth with great excitement. And yes, he would certainly be inviting all his colleagues for a drink to wet the baby's head when the time came. No problems there. Bill Donahue seemed to be your ordinary, average, everyday construction worker stroke family man. (He reminded Al in some ways of his own father, who would have liked to be a typical family man, if circumstances had been kinder, and who had worked hard on construction sites the world over in an effort to provide for his children.)

Al liked Donahue.

He seemed a bit distracted perhaps, but that could be easily explained. Expectant fathers often had that air. Al was glad that he'd never got tangled up in that side of things. He congratulated himself that throughout the course of five marriages he had consistently managed to avoid the complication of offspring. It never once occurred to him to wonder if any of his wives would have seen them that way.

Now, the longer Al studied Bill Donahue; the stranger his behavior appeared. He was getting nervous, agitated. He looked around as if he had a guilty secret. Perhaps he was ripping off his bosses somehow. Al looked for any signs that he was skimming off materials, or even stealing from his work mates. Anything. But he came up empty.

He was just about to give up, punch up his door and head back to HQ to change for his quiet, romantic meal with Tina, when he saw that Bill was himself trying to do some discreet observing.

Two young men had emerged from the office building and were heading for the computer complex. They wore expensive Italian suits, white silk shirts, wine colored ties bearing the same gold logo as the carpet in reception, and as on the heavy signet rings they sported on thick fingers. Gucci shoes.

They skirted round the site, trying to keep the pristine appearance from being tarnished. They looked out of place - as if they had just stepped off a movie set. But the thing which struck Al most about these two men was the fact that he thought he was seeing double.

He would have blamed the booze – _if_ he still drank.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. They were not just alike, nor even just like normal identical twins, who usually have several individual features if you know where to look for them. These two were more like clones, reproduced in minute detail from a single blueprint.

Both were in excess of 6'5" tall, must have weighed at least 255lbs, and were as broad shouldered as a quarterback in pads. The word stocky sprang naturally to Al's mind, and his slight frame moved aside as they passed, as if he felt that he could be knocked down by their very wake. Not that it would have ruffled a hair on his head if they had barreled straight through him, of course. It was just that they were _very_ intimidating.

Even to a hologram.

They had close cropped, jet black hair, and steely grey eyes set deep beneath thick bushy eyebrows, which met in the middle over their broad noses. Their skin had an olive tinge to it. The lips were thin and cruel. Definitely not a pretty sight. Al found himself profoundly relieved that Sam had not Leaped into one of these goons. We must be grateful for small mercies, he thought. And that brought him sharply back to the fact that Sam _was_ here, and they had to find out why.

Al turned his attention back to Donahue, wondering what his interest was in these two. He would have liked to eavesdrop on their conversation, but their jaws were set tight. They weren't giving anything away. Donahue seemed annoyed by this too, as he tried to melt into the background. Al didn't blame him. He reckoned that these two wouldn't react too kindly to being spied on.

Al debated with himself whether to follow the gruesome twosome, or stick with Donahue, or call it quits and go back to Tina. At that moment a voice like a foghorn made him jump.

"Donahue! What you doin' over there, boy?"

Donahue started guiltily and looked around at the foreman, muttering something about checking supplies, and hurrying back to where he was obviously meant to be.

Al thought he had the look of a kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Whatever it is, you are in way over your head, kid." Al said to him. He had an uneasy feeling that Donahue was not going to 'disappear' willingly, and it was more than an even bet that the terrible twins and/or the load mouthed foreman could be implicated. Al wouldn't trust any of them to sell him a used car.

He decided to ask Ziggy if she could come up with anything on them, and punched up his doorway. He figured Donahue would be lying low for a while and unlikely to be worth watching any longer. Besides, he had a hot date with the lovely Tina, and he didn't want a repeat performance of the scene she'd created last time he had kept her waiting. Both for the sake of Al's love life, and for Sam's sake (since they relied on Tina's technical expertise to keep Ziggy functional), it paid to keep Tina sweet.

Back in his room, he interrogated Ziggy while rifling through his wardrobe for the right outfit to suit his mood. It was useful that the computer was not confined to the room in which the actual hardware was housed, but could be voice linked anywhere in the complex. Dr Beckett had thought of _almost _everything when designing this project. (Except how to get himself home!)

Al took out an electric blue suit and laid it neatly on the bed. He still kept to precise naval ways, even if the mode of his attire had altered diametrically. Everything in the room – apart from the contents of his wardrobe – was uncompromisingly utilitarian, precise, orderly, and shipshape.

Old habits died hard.

He sorted through the silk ties, rejecting them all in favor of a mock ivory steer's head on a leathery thong (he was too much the conservationist to condone wearing the real thing). It perfectly complemented the cowboy theme of the shirt, which was emblazoned with golden horseshoes and branding irons. A synthetic blue snakeskin belt and a neon-lit Sheriff's badge completed the effect.

Ziggy, as ever, was not as forthcoming as Al would have wished. It appeared that the foreman, one Clifford Bull, had a police record for assault following an argument over a woman back in '86. The fight did not surprise Al, although he raised an eyebrow that any woman would see anything in the ape in the first place. No accounting for taste. Aside from that, there was nothing remarkable in the man's history. He had held his present job for the past two years.

The clones turned out to be Ruggiero's identical twin sons - Guido and Marco. Even their parents had trouble telling them apart. They got their size from their late mother's side of the family. They towered head and shoulders over their father. They'd been raised with every advantage, and groomed to inherit the family business. A close-knit Italian/American family: affluent and influential.

The construction company was the first to use the sophisticated automation system, and the current project was the original. It was to be followed by three others by the end of the century. A mixture of shopping malls; office blocks and luxury housing.

David Beckett had been recruited for his design skills. He was evidently the genius behind the new earthquake-proof brick, which he had designed on his computer, having got the idea from an old movie. Al made himself a note to impart that piece of trivia to Sam. He thought his friend might appreciate it. He also hoped that Sam could bone up on the design before the Press Conference next day. He may well be required to talk knowledgeably on the subject.

By this time Al had had his wash and brush up and was freshly attired. He opened the box on his bedside cabinet and selected a fresh cigar. Giving himself one last preen, peacock fashion, in the wardrobe mirror, he commanded Ziggy to "keep digging" and strode out to knock Tina's socks off.


	8. Chapter 5

Chapter Five 

Bill was relieved when his shift finished and he could head for home.

He had learnt nothing new to confirm his suspicions, but neither had he found any reason to allay them. He had been edgy, and when Bull had challenged him, he had been really worried that he had overplayed his hand, aroused suspicions himself. He would never get to the truth if they were on to him, and he daren't think what would happen to the family if he lost his job now.

Once again he considered letting the whole thing go. Perhaps it really wasn't worth it. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he sat in traffic, his mind in turmoil. Every time he decided to let it drop, his conscience pricked him. He was caught between a rock and a hard place and he couldn't see any way out.

Cat and Sean were waiting by the elevator when he got home, as he knew they would be.

Same ritual every night.

They would wait for him, hand in hand; just where he'd left them when he'd gone to work, as if they had been frozen in time and hadn't moved all the while he was gone.

Their faces lit up as the doors slid silently open and he strode out to greet them. For a moment, all his worries melted away in the sheer joy of their reunion. A casual observer would have thought that he'd been away at war for years, to see the intensity of their embrace. But Bill and Cat, despite nine years of marriage, were still as much in love as newlyweds, and they didn't care who knew it.

Sean waited patiently while his parents kissed and hugged, while Daddy lifted Mom and swung her gently round, giggling like a schoolgirl. Then it was his turn. The huge strong arms swept him up, calloused but gentle hands grasped him firmly under the armpits and hoisted him up almost to the ceiling, spinning him round like a helicopter, legs and arms akimbo.

"Faster, Daddy, faster." He laughed, and then rode his father's shoulders back into the apartment, in a reply of the earlier scene, only in reverse.

Once inside, Bill carried his son to his small bedroom, decorated with sports cars on the wallpaper and duvet cover. The floor was not cluttered, but one or two toys had escaped the daily tidy – a big green plastic dumper truck and a bulldozer. Daddy's job was a constant source of fascination. A yellow hardhat – thinner, unable to protect him from anything heavier than a Lego brick, but otherwise a reasonable facsimile of the real thing – hung on a hook on the back of the door. A small train set sat atop the chest of drawers. A huge teddy stood guard at the foot of the bed, a crucifix hung on the wall at the head end. Bill set him down by the bed.

"Get undressed now, sport," he ordered, "we'll be in to say goodnight soon."

"Yes, sir!" Sean saluted smartly, but it was not a gesture born of fear, more a shared game. Bill returned the salute with a wink, then tousled his son's hair affectionately and about faced, heading for the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

Once Sean had been settled, Bill told Cat about his day at work over dinner, as usual. Today, he omitted to mention the feelings of having been watched, the worry. Instead, he passed on the good wishes of his workmates for the health of his wife and her baby. He did broach the subject of his dilemma long enough to ask her what she felt about him talking things over with David Beckett.

"Are you sure you can trust him, Bill?" she was pushing her food around her plate with her fork, distracted, her appetite jaded.

"I'm almost certain I can." He met her eyes across the table, neatly laid out, crisp linen tablecloth embroidered around the edges with sprawling vines, perfectly matching those adorning the rims of the crockery, but sewn by hand, not department store bought.

"I thought I'd call Frank and ask him his opinion of David. He's given him a lift home once or twice, and knows him a lot better than I do."

That reminded him, and he proceeded to tell Cat about the accident he'd seen on his way to work, remembering suddenly the promise he had made himself at work to check up on his friend's welfare. Caitlin chided him for not phoning as soon as he got home. She was thinking about Mary, and how she must be fretting.

As soon as the meal had been hastily concluded, she herded him over to the phone and picked up the receiver, planting it firmly in his hand. She stood over him as a teacher would a wayward pupil, watching with her arms folded while he punched in the numbers. Sometimes men could be hopeless.

When Mary answered, her voice was strained. Bill was afraid that the news was worse than he'd suspected, and cursed himself for not calling sooner. He was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Mary?"

"Is that you, Bill?"

"Uh, I was worried about Frank, I was on my way to work when I saw…."

"He's here, Bill. He wasn't hurt, thank God, but he's had a terrible shock. He'll be pleased you called."

"Are **you** all right, Mary?" At Cat's prompting.

"Oh, I'm okay, thanks. I got very anxious when he was so late home, but I'm just fine now. Here he is, I'll let him tell you all about it."

Bill relaxed.

Caitlin, having been reassured that Frank was uninjured, left Bill to talk to him on the phone, saying that she'd have a proper chat with Mary tomorrow over coffee. She went into the kitchen to do the dishes.

Frank's voice took over on the phone.

"Thanks for calling, Bill."

"How are you doing, Frank? I saw your pick-up at that accident. It looked like things got pretty hairy there for a while."

"You betcha. I had a lucky escape. I never saw the other car coming, Bill. If it hadn't been for David Beckett…" he paused, not wanting to put the 'if' into words.

Bill pricked up his ears at the mention of Beckett's name.

"He hitched a ride with you again?"

"Right. Good thing for me he did. He steered us clear. He was incredible. You wouldn't believe it. I mean, no disrespect, but he seems so – well, ordinary. But today, I dunno… I tell you, Bill, he's a great guy to have around in a crisis. You should have seen him. He was like Superman or something. Yup, he just leapt in and dragged that woman outa the wreck. Then he went right back in for her husband. He nearly got fried when the car blew.

And it turns out the guy was already a stiff. David was so brave. He didn't bat an eyelid, just got on and gave the woman first aid. There was blood everywhere, but he was so cool, like he did that sort of thing every day of his life, y'know? I felt so stupid. Some guy with a car phone called the paramedics. Others helped the guy in the station wagon. I just stood there, Bill, I felt 'bout as much use as a chocolate branding iron, I can tell you. The paramedics said David had saved that woman's life for sure. She'd have bled to death if he hadn't been there, if'n she hadn't gone up with car. In my book David's a real hero: Dead modest though. Just said he'd only done what he had to do. What d'ya make of that? I think he surprised hisself, to tell the truth. When it was all over he was as sick as a dawg. Hardly said a word all the way home. Matter of fact he was so distracted he didn't even realize he was home. Looked at the place like he'd never laid eyes on it before. I felt kinda sorry for him. He was blaming himself cos that driver died, but heck, no one coulda done more'n he did. I know I'm gonna be grateful to him the rest of my life for the way he got me outa danger. I go cold just thinking what might've happened."

Bill had listened intently, without interrupting. Not that it was ever easy to get a word in with Frank once he got started. He felt his friend's need to get it all off his chest, but he was also pleased by what he was hearing about David Beckett. He was surer than ever that if anyone could help him, it would be this man.

Now, Bill spent some time talking with his friend. He reassured Frank that he need not feel guilty for not taking a more active role in the rescue, saying that doing nothing was far better than blundering in and doing the wrong thing, making matters worse. Frank told him David had said much the same thing. Bill also pointed out that an abashed Frank in one piece was far more valuable to Mary and the kids than a dead hero. Frank brightened audibly at that, and Bill was glad to have been the source of some comfort.

Finally, he sent his family's best wishes to all Frank's family and invited them to come on over for coffee in the morning, as his wife had instructed. Frank said they'd look forward to it, and thanked him again for taking the trouble to call. It felt good to have friends to share problems with. That struck a cord with Bill, but he was even more certain that Frank should not have to take his particular problem on board.

Caitlin re-entered the room just as Bill hung up, having detoured via the bedroom to make sure Sean was sound asleep. She sat herself down next to Bill on the couch, nuzzling her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her protectively, and gave the bump a gentle pat.

Then he told her all about Frank's glowing reference for David Beckett. Mrs. Donahue was every bit as impressed as her husband had been.

"He sounds like a good man, Bill. Perhaps he can help. Talk to him tomorrow; invite him over for Sunday lunch. I think I'd very much like to meet him."


	9. Chapter 6

Chapter six 

Saturday 5th August

Al found Sam hard at work on David's computer.

This time, the Traveler greeted the Observer warmly as soon as he appeared, his melancholy of the previous day completely evaporated. Al was resplendent in a poppy red suit, black shirt patterned with red and white geometric shapes, red silk tie. Sam was more conservatively dressed in a grey jogging suit. The traces of perspiration under the armpits suggested he had put it to good use before breakfast, the remains of which sat forgotten on the table – half a slice of toast and some orange juice, an empty cereal bowl.

Al caught Sam's expression as he pored over the monitor, and was glad of it.

"09:30 hours and all's well?" he teased, in his best naval officer's voice.

"I won't bite, and my claws are retracted, if that's what's worrying you." Sam held up his hands for Al to inspect, referring to their last conversation, and purring like a kitten.

Sam was relieved that his friend seemed to have forgiven him for his snub of the night before, they were neither one the sort to hold grudges. Sam himself was feeling much calmer, looking forwards rather than backwards again. And just now, he was enjoying himself, doing what he liked best – learning.

"Take a look at this, Al. It's incredible." He tapped several keys on the computer and the monitor flickered as it refreshed, calling up 3D virtual reality images. "I have to admit, this David is a real genius."  
"You mean the brick? I was gonna tell you about that. You won't believe it, but he got the idea…"

"From an old movie!" Sam finished with him.

They laughed.

Sam flicked the TV into life with a remote control, and scanned through a videotape (well worn, evidently frequently viewed).

"Turns out it's an amusing story. I didn't think it was my sort of thing at first – calls itself a 'fairytale for computers'. But in fact it is an interesting notion. It'd drive **you** crazy." Al shot him a hurt look, which Sam ignored.

"See, here's the basic idea." He stopped fast-forwarding the video, switching to play and letting it run awhile. Man and hologram watched.

"Now," Sam turned back to the keyboard, "See how David has taken the original concept and used the latest technology to develop it into something which actually works. It's brilliant."

It had been a long time since Al had seen Sam so enthusiastic about anything. It was obviously just the tonic he needed. He let Sam give him every complicated detail, even though a goodly percentage went right over his head, and he was pretty sure Sam knew it.

After a while Sam paused. A frown crossed his face. He looked at Al.

"What is it, Sam?"

"The brick. It **does** work, doesn't it? I mean, Ziggy can tell us if it is a success. I'm not here because it's flawed design and the whole thing is going to collapse. Have I got to prevent the building being erected?"

Leaping had tended to make Sam pessimistic at times. He had come to believe in the inexorability of Murphy's Law – if anything could go wrong, sooner or later it probably would.

Sam looked at Al's COM link. He really hoped that for once in his life it would give him a straight answer to a simple question. Al punched a few buttons. Ziggy squealed. They waited. And waited. Sam glanced at the TV again, where the video was still running on mute.

"A-aal?"

"Hmmm?"

"Tell me honestly, you haven't ever spilt champagne on Ziggy, have you?"

Al's hand froze mid-way to the hand-link. His head jerked up. He gave Sam a look, which suggested his friend must have been speaking one of the seven foreign languages in which he was fluent.

"Huh?"

"Only it could explain a lot of things, that's all."

Al didn't have the faintest idea what Sam was talking about. He wasn't sure if Sam was teasing him again. Sam wasn't entirely sure himself.

Ziggy flashed, announcing that he had some answers.

Al reassured Sam that David's brick had made the cover of Scientific American. He had won an award for it. It was tried and tested and a resounding success. No problems there. Sam was pleased. He'd developed a great respect for this young man whose life he had usurped. He was glad that such insight and dedication were to be rewarded.

It was a shame that David didn't have Security Clearance. It was just possible that he might have been able to make some sense of Ziggy's temperamental circuitry. Maybe even find out where things had got fouled up. Help them to find the way to get him Home. A doleful expression flickered across his face. He banished it. He knew it was only wishful thinking.

Sam came sharply back to the present. It was all very well establishing why he **wasn't** there. That still left William Donahue's disappearance. So far he'd been David for almost 24 hours and not even met the man yet.

He was starting to wonder if Bill had disappeared already and Ziggy just hadn't noticed.

"Has Ziggy come up with any likely scenarios for me, yet?"

Al told Sam how he'd watched Donahue at work, how jumpy he had been:

"He was more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

And how he was himself spying on the Ruggiero brothers.

"Watch out for those two, Sam," Al warned him sternly, "They look like Trouble with a capital T to me."

Sam took Al's description of them with a pinch of salt. Surely they couldn't really look that bad? Time would tell.

They were still no nearer to the Why of the situation. Sam decided it was pointless going round in circles. He would just have to play a waiting game, and trust that the right clue would come along in time. Meantime, he was going to make the most of opportunity. He turned his attention back to the computer and began to study some of the other programs that David had been working on, fascinated.

Al felt superfluous, and left.

Later that morning, Sam was still engrossed in his studies when the telephone rang, breaking his concentration and making him start. He got up stiffly and answered it.

"Sa- uh David Beckett speaking."

He hoped that this was not going to be some girlfriend he had inadvertently stood up. It didn't seem likely. His detailed search of David's home (a necessary invasion of privacy which he'd long since stopped feeling guilty about) had failed to turn up a little black book, at least not one full of phone numbers. There were countless notebooks scattered around – crammed full of calculations and theories, most of them astounding and every one quite brilliant.

"Have I called at a bad time?"

Sam felt a flood of relief as he recognized the strongly accented voice. It was only his Oracle – Frank Bannerman.

"What? Oh, no, Frank. Just lost in my work on the computer. What can I do for you?"

"That's just it, boy. You did so darn much yesterday, and I don't reckon I even said 'Thank you'. Heck, you saved my hide for sure. I'm right beholden to you. I guess I got 'bout as much chance of roping and hog-tying the moon as I have of ever paying you my dues, but I kinda hoped you'd at least let me buy you a couple of beers when you get through this afternoon. That is if you won't mind stooping to beer after a champagne shindig?"

As usual, Frank was talking so fast that Sam wondered when he managed to pause for breath. Still, he was harmless. Sam even liked him, and it was possible he could be the font of further wisdom. In the absence of a more positive course of action, sharing a sociable pint or two with Bannerman seemed as good a way as any to pass the time.

When he could finally get a word in, Sam assured Frank that he was unlikely to be over-indulging in champagne:

"…especially with old Bull-frog breathing down our necks…" and that he would love to join him for a beer, although he shrugged aside any notion of Frank being in his debt, in his customary self-deprecating tone.

Frank arranged to meet him at a local bar, which he was obviously supposed to know. He was sure he could find it. He thanked Frank for the invitation and hung up.

It was a glorious morning.

Sam switched off the computer and turned his attention to how he was going to get back to the building site. He found a set of car keys and went outside to examine the T-bird. It was a real beauty. He would have given his eyeteeth for a car like this as a young man. David was doing a first rate job of restoring it to its original splendor. For the moment, however, Sam ignored the bodywork. As he suspected, it didn't exactly kick straight into life. He opened the hood, and set about seeing if it was possible to make it roadworthy in the time available. From Frank's comments at work, he was sure that David had driven it on occasions, but perhaps not recently, although he discovered David's driving license in the glove box in readiness.

He found a comprehensive tool box in the trunk, stripped down to the waist, and got stuck in. soon he was up to his elbows in grease, and thoroughly enjoying every minute. By lunchtime, he had the engine purring like a baby tiger.


	10. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven 

Sam made sure he got to the site early.

He'd showered and changed into a smart suit in honor of the occasion. He parked the T-bird in the spot which Frank's pick up had occupied the day before. The spaces weren't named, and there were more than enough to choose from, but he knew Frank wasn't coming, and if others had habitual spaces he didn't want to give himself away by encroaching. Attention to detail had often proved to be a saving grace.

He looked around. He seemed to be among the first to arrive, as he'd wanted. He hoped to spot the white Chevy truck he'd been told Bill drove the moment it arrived, giving him the greatest chance of engineering a conversation with the man. He opened the hood again, and pretended to tinker, so that he could watch each new arrival. It was a good spot for observation.

The first vehicle to arrive - A shining black Cadillac Seville with tinted windows and air-conditioning - didn't pull into the parking lot at all but drew up into a bay marked out by the office block. No prizes for guessing who is in there, thought Sam. Sure enough, the chauffeur emerged and opened the rear door for the shark Ruggiero, whom Sam had already had the misfortune of meeting, and his two unmistakable sons. Sam decided that Al had not exaggerated in his description after all. They marched purposefully into the office block, talking earnestly, with much expansive gesticulation, but were too far away for Sam to hear what they were discussing.

Next to turn up was the foreman, Bull. He acknowledged 'David' with a curt nod, then strode through the gates, put on his hardhat, and proceeded to make sure everything was in position for the grand unveiling.

A huge concrete foundation stone had been laid in a suitably prominent position, bearing a brass plaque to commemorate the occasion. It was shrouded in a copious heavy velvet curtain, deep burgundy in hue, and sporting, predictably, the golden logo with its RSC initials. It had been meticulously arranged, each pleat and fold exactly the same depth. The hem completely concealed the slab, but stopped just short of being marred by mud or dust. The whole thing was gathered on the top and fixed onto an enormous metallic ring placed neatly in the centre. The effect reminded him of the cover on a birdcage.

With a satisfied expression, Bull lifted the heavy ring and slipped it over a hook which hung suspended from a chain, attached to the giant crane. All lined up and ready. He stood back and examined the lay out, mentally projecting every movement, as it would occur.

Perfect.

As long as the computer buff had got his programming right, it would all go smoothly. Personally, he preferred the old fashioned way. He would have liked to be manning the crane himself. He neither understood nor trusted computers - but it was not his decision to make. He was paid to obey orders, and see that others did the same.

The parking lot was filling up now, as OB vans positioned themselves bearing cameras and sound equipment and transmission link ups. A long trailer took up residence, hosting make up crew. A catering truck set up, and immediately started serving coffee to harassed workers. Then came the cars of the TV personnel themselves – the journalists, sound engineers, cameramen, autocue operators, technicians, directors, gofers; the whole gamut. This was really going to be a major event. Sam hadn't fully appreciated the scale of it. He was starting to feel conspicuous. He decided he would have to abandon his ruse. As he lowered the hood, two vehicles pulled into the lot. One of them was his target, the white Chevy truck.

'This is it' thought Sam, trying to look casual. He strolled across the parking lot, hands in pockets, whistling nonchalantly, in a carefully prescribed arc, which would bring him right alongside the Chevy. He measured his pace, calculating that he would draw level just as Bill got out.

For his part, Bill had noticed with mounting hope that David was leaving his distinctive T-bird, and on his present course he would have to come right past him to get to the platform where their places were all marked out. He almost fell out of the truck in his haste to get out before David had moved on and he'd missed his chance. Another car had followed him into the lot and pulled in alongside his. As he locked his door and tried to catch David's eye, its driver got out and stood between them.

Today, Ms Krystal Fleisher had surpassed herself in sartorial elegance. All pretence at subtlety had been abandoned. The lightweight suit was black, superbly tailored to accentuate every lascivious curve. The skirt reached almost to her knees at the front, but had a seductive split centre back, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh. By way of contrast, the soft white blouse, low cut and silky, stopped the effect from becoming too somber. A triple row of beads led the eye from her neck to her ample bosom, a matching brooch sat neatly on her lapel. The rich auburn hair was piled high, not one strand out of place. The make up was again discreet, and the nails just the right shade. She'd spent all morning and the best part of her month's salary in the beauty parlor to achieve this look and she was going to make sure that everyone noticed it.

Especially the cameras.

She smiled at Bill. Not her professional smile, but a very alluring one. It was wasted on him, but you couldn't blame a girl for trying.

"And how is our proud father-to-be?" she enquired, batting her long (false as summer snow) eyelashes.

Bill was irritated. Not just by the blatant flirting, which always embarrassed him, but because she was in the way. Had he been less of a gentleman, he would have simply brushed her aside, but his Momma didn't raise him to be rude to a lady, even if she was a Man-Eater.

"I'm just fine, thank you, ma'am." He replied politely, trying to catch David's eye over her shoulder. The other man seemed to have slowed down, as if wanting to engage in conversation himself. Bill's heart leapt; he was sure Beckett was not looking to chat Krystal up. Now, if only the piranha would pick another prey. No such luck. She slipped her arm through his possessively and led him off, in a manner that left him no polite way to extricate himself. He found himself having to turn away from David and escort her to the platform.

Damn – later then.

So near, and yet so far, thought Sam, as Bill was propelled ahead of him. He'd managed no more contact than a brief smile, although it had looked for an instant almost as if Bill were as keen to talk to David, as Sam was to get close to him. He thought about catching them up and joining the group, but decided that the presence of the lovely Ms Fleischer would hinder meaningful conversation.

He did wonder briefly if these two were having an affair. Perhaps they were about to elope together. He glanced into both vehicles as he sauntered past, looking for signs of suitcases or such like. He found nothing. He made a mental note to have Al check with Ziggy if Ms Fleischer disappeared too, but deep down he knew already what the answer would be. While it may be wishful thinking on Krystal's part, he had seen enough in Bill's expression to believe that the attention was unwelcome. And affairs in the workplace are notoriously hard to keep secret. Surely David would have at least heard a rumor?

Al's liaison with Tina was common knowledge down every corridor at Quantum Leap Head Quarters.

Sam scolded himself for suspecting the big man. Frank obviously knew him very well, and painted him as the ideal family man. Everything pointed to him being solid and dependable. He didn't look like a man who would cheat on a pregnant wife with a bimbo, however willing she was. Which led him to wonder – what if she goes berserk at being rejected? They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and lookers like her can't believe that any man could resist them. Maybe she WAS the reason he vanished. Maybe she took her wounded pride and choked him to death with it.

Sam hastened his step, just a little, so that he could watch and listen, without her noticing him. As he listened, he wondered what he would do about it if his hunch proved to be correct. Bill was a big man, much bigger than his companion. If he couldn't stop her, what hope did Sam have? Was she carrying a weapon: Gun? Knife? Scissors?

Red alert.

Sam tensed his muscles, poised ready to spring if she made a move against Bill. Almost immediately, he relaxed again. He was being foolish, over-reacting. It was far too public here. Ziggy said Bill had disappeared. If it had been such an obvious case of murder there would be eyewitness reports. He began to regret his rendezvous with Frank. He may need to follow these two when they leave. Maybe she rammed his car off the road in some deserted spot, and that was why he was never found. He decided that if it came to a choice, he would just have to make his apologies to Frank at a later date. Or maybe David would be left to explain. Whatever.

Sam shook his head. There were altogether too many Maybes about this Leap, and precious little else. Now, as he listened, he thought he was letting his imagination run away with him. Krystal may be flirting outrageously, but she sounded harmless enough. He didn't let himself stand down beyond yellow alert though. It was still a possibility that she could be guilty. You never could tell with women what they were capable of. Sam had been one often enough to know that.

By this time they had reached the makeshift stage. The Bullfrog and the TV producer were arguing over who gave the orders, steering people here and there in semi-organized chaos. Cameras had been set up to capture the moment from every conceivable angle, and now the place was crawling with press photographers too. A liberal smattering of security guards had taken up positions around the perimeter, and around the platform itself.

The TV man was getting exasperated, begging somebody, anybody to get this oaf out of his way. Eventually, everything was more or less sorted out, and someone sent Bull to fetch Mr. Ruggiero, saying:

"The Mayor will be here in TEN minutes!"

So that was it. Now, Sam understood what all the fuss was about. He had known this was going to be a Municipal building of some sort, but he had not realized that the Mayor of LA herself was personally endorsing it. He found himself wondering why on earth he should remember that in 1995 the Mayor of Los Angeles had been a woman. How could his Swiss-cheesed brain forget vital pieces of personal history and vast amounts of accumulated knowledge relating to earth-shattering theorems, yet retain bit of utter trivia like that?

Taking his place on the stage, Sam noticed he was just about as far away from Bill Donahue as it was possible to get. He tilted his head backwards slightly and cast his eyes upward, his palms facing skyward in a gesture of supplication. He muttered:

"Oh, boy! Give me a break, huh?"

The next two hours or so felt more like days. Ruggiero made a rambling speech about how he'd got his company built up from nothing, and now it was the most revolutionary set up in the country, perhaps in the world. He went on and on about how wonderful the technique was, and the materials and he'd asked everyone to show their appreciation for the genius David Beckett who'd been responsible for so much of it. Sam hid behind David's natural modesty to keep his own speech short and to the point - factual, yet not too technical. He felt the eyes of the crowd and the many lenses focused on him. He felt aware of all the people watching on their TV screens. He felt he would have been enormously relieved if another earthquake would be kind enough to show up right now, open the ground and swallow him whole.

Then at last, he was able to melt into the background again, as Ruggiero told the crowd how special this day was. How he'd worked and planned for this day, and how he'd chosen **this** day, August 5th, so that he could dedicate his efforts and his success to his late wife, whose birthday this would have been. Sam was moved by that, and wondered if he had misjudged the man. Ruggiero introduced his sons, flanking him on either side. Sam observed that they were true mirror images. Marco, on his father's right, wore his signet ring on his right hand. Guido wore his on the left. Sam filed the information in his photographic memory for future reference.

Finally, it was time for the Mayor to do her part. She was strikingly attractive, with typical Afro-Caribbean features, bright eyes and a warm smile, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. She radiated honesty and enthusiasm, and it was easy to see why she had been chosen for office. Her speech was mildly political, without being too electioneering. She spoke of her pride in the spirit of the City and its people, and how grateful they should be to those who were rebuilding a new LA, rising like a phoenix out of the ashes of disaster. She said that this new Court House would be a symbol of a physically and morally solid future for the Community.

Sam tried to relax and enjoy being part of history-in-the-making, but he kept glancing at Bill, trying to figure out how to get him talking, how to help him. Once or twice, he caught Bill casting a sideways look at him and he smiled. If he was right, and Bill was trying to get his attention, it could make his job that little bit easier. Of course, it could be another red herring. The situation struck him as almost farcical. Here were two people who, seemingly, were desperate to talk to each other, and who had been kept apart by circumstances for the better part of two days. And they were still no nearer to a meeting. Bother Frank and his beer, thought Sam again. Then he changed his mind and silently thanked the chatterbox. Of course, why not ask Bill to join them? He and Frank were already friends; it was perfectly natural - the ideal opening. Hope sprang in him anew, and Sam turned his attention back to the ceremony.

The Mayor was concluding her speech. That was his cue. He stepped forward and handed her a remote control device. It reminded him somewhat of Ziggy's hand link, and he wondered fleetingly what Al was up to back at base, and whether or not he would approve of it.

With a theatrical gesture for the benefit of the front pages, Mayor Carolyn Glover pressed the button that set all the gears in motion. The crane's winch started up, the steel chain became taught, and like an anchor being weighed, the ring began to rise up in the air, pulling the curtain with it. All eyes and all cameras focused on the foundation stone being revealed – panning to close ups of the plaque giving the date and details of this momentous event for all posterity to marvel at. There was much cheering and applause and the popping of champagne corks, as Mayor Glover and Luigi Ruggiero toasted each other for the cameras. Then everyone on the stage was given a glass, while reporters shot questions to the Mayor and the magnate. Finally, honored guests adjourned to the office block for the full-blown reception in the Conference Room.

Fortunately, Ms Fleischer was required to act as hostess, and so was prevented from intervening in Sam's efforts again. The Mayor was led away by the Ruggiero family, and the cameras followed. Those who were finished for the day hung back, waiting for the crowds to disperse before departing. One or two were commenting to 'David' on his speech and chatting good-naturedly. He tried to edge closer to Bill, but again others kept coming between them.

'I don't believe this,' thought Sam, 'it's a conspiracy!'

He completely lost sight of Donahue and began to despair of ever making contact, when suddenly a broad hand clasped him firmly on the shoulder, making him jump. A softly spoken voice, which belied the man's size said:

"Nice one, David."

Even before he turned to face the man, Sam knew this was the moment he had been waiting for.

'About time, too.' He thought.

"The speech, or the brick?" he asked, grinning modestly.

"Both, but actually I was thinking more about what happened yesterday. I saw the accident on my way in, and Frank told me all about it last night. You're a real dark horse. None of us knew you had it in you."

The twinkle left Sam's eyes and a dark cloud crossed his face, eclipsing the sunshine of his smile. Sam swallowed hard, at a loss for a suitable reply. He thought he had worked it out of his system, by talking to Al, by jogging hard early this morning, and by immersing himself in a study of David's ideas, but this sudden unwelcome reminder caught him completely off guard.

Bill saw his face fall and thought he'd blown it. David didn't seem so keen to talk to him anymore. He searched his brain for something to say to repair the damage before the younger man bolted out of reach again. It was not an auspicious start.

At least the rest of the crowd, although ignorant of the details, had melted away as the atmosphere tensed. Sam struggled to control his emotions; he could read Bill's expression and knew this was make-or-break time. If he let the man slip away now, he may not get another chance, it could mean total failure. He forced himself into a wry smile, although his voice was not as steady as he would have wished:

"I didn't for long." He said, making a pun of Bill's comment, "Frank must also have told you that I parted company with my breakfast afterwards." He could literally see the tension flow out of Bill's shoulders. They both pretended amusement that neither felt, but the contact had been made, and both men hoped that it would now progress in a more positive way.

They fell into step together, heading back through the gates towards the parking lot. For a while, they talked without really saying anything, each looking for an opening to get to what was really on his mind, before they reached their respective vehicles and lost the chance again.

Sam steered the conversation back to their mutual friend, Frank and his family, by asking when the two ladies were due to give birth. Then he mentioned, ever so casually, that Frank had offered to buy him a beer, and suggested that Bill should join them, he was sure that Frank wouldn't mind.

For a moment, Bill was tempted to agree. He wanted to get this whole thing out in the open. But he decided against it. He still didn't want to worry Frank. The bar was too public. What if they were overheard? And Cat would get panicky if he were late home. Yet still it gave him his lead.

"I'd love to, David, but Cat's expecting me home. She'll have dinner waiting for me. Tell you what, though, she'd love to meet you. Why don't you come round for lunch tomorrow? My Caitlin is a great cook. She makes the best Irish stew this side of the Big Pond. We can have a good meal and a proper chat."

Sam's face had fallen at the initial refusal, but he brightened visibly as Bill extended his 'impromptu' (yeah, right. Sam wasn't fooled) invitation. Things were looking up. He accepted with genuine enthusiasm. The further delay would be worth it for the prospect of having Bill relaxed on home ground, willing, even eager to talk. Also for the simple pleasure of a home cooked meal. Quid Pro Quo, he thought. He verified the address and the time he should arrive.

"I'm looking forward to it already." He said, with complete honesty, shaking William Donahue warmly by the hand.


	11. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight 

**Sunday 6th August**

Sam went through David's closet to find his Sunday best. He discovered a crisp white shirt, a pair of smart black trousers. Black and grey silk tie, casual grey jacket; passable.

"You scrub up okay, Beckett." He said to himself as he surveyed the image in the mirror. He wasn't sure which Beckett he was talking to. Despite retaining an awareness of his true identity, separate and unique, it had been a very long time since his own face stared back at him: a long time, and a Swiss-cheesed memory. He was not at all sure he could remember what the real Doctor Samuel John Beckett looked like anymore. The Invisible Man, he thought ruefully. He never fully got used to shaving a strange face in the mornings, or worse yet, applying make up to one.

Still - never a dull moment. And Leaping did hold some pleasures. He found himself really looking forward to this meal, and not just because it was likely to reveal a way to achieve his purpose and so hasten his departure. For one thing, Leaping played havoc with his biorhythms and it was good to be able to take care of his physical needs. He literally never knew where (or when) his next meal was coming from. He could Leap out of one life just before lunch, into another during the middle of the night, months or years later, or earlier. Skipped meals were an occupational hazard. How did the nonsense song go? 'I haven't had an egg since Easter, and now it's half past three…'

Yeah, that just about summed it up. No wonder he sometimes felt he was in a permanent state of jetlag.

For another thing, he always enjoyed home-cooked meals; anybody's home. They never failed to remind him of how great it was to sit around a table and share good food with people who cared about each other. How good it was to have a Home, even if he was only borrowing it.

Sam straightened his tie, combed his hair, and picked up the bunch of flowers he had purchased for his kind hostess. Locking the door to David's apartment, he headed for the T-bird with a spring in his step and a song in his heart.

By the time he was riding the elevator up to the Donahue's apartment, anticipation had sharpened his appetite still further. He really was going to enjoy this. The only cloud on the horizon was Bill's problem. Sam was pleased that Bill had made the first approach yesterday, and had hinted at a willingness to share some information. That willingness could make Sam's job easier, though not necessarily more pleasant.

When he reached the fifth floor, Bill was waiting outside the elevator, his wife by his side, his son on his broad muscular shoulders. They were all smiling in welcome, and made a touching, chocolate-box picture.

Sam thanked Mrs. Donahue for the invitation, and presented her with the bouquet. She was a petite woman, with thick brown hair neatly braided in a French plait. Her deep hazel eyes reflected her smile as she accepted the proffered gift, blushing profusely. She wore an emerald green maternity dress with a white lace collar, which accentuated the impending event in a most flattering way. A dainty gold cross and chain sat glinting at her throat. When she thanked him, her voice was soft, and had an almost musical lilt to it. She had a small round face and a button nose. She was very cute.

"You told me your wife is a good cook, Bill," Sam commented as he was introduced, "but you neglected to mention how lovely she is."

Caitlin blushed again:

"Why, Mr. Beckett, have you just sailed in from the old country? I swear you must've been kissing the Blarney Stone!"

Sam didn't know why he understood the allusion, but he did. He smiled and changed the subject:

"And this fine young man must be Master Sean."

He turned his attention to the boy. He was glad Al had taken so much trouble to fill him in on mundane details on Friday afternoon. It may have been a device on Al's part, an excuse not to leave him alone to brood, but it had also provided some useful pointers. Like the fact that Bill's son was called Sean, and was six years old. He would have had to decline this welcome invitation had Sean been any younger. For some reason, which his scrambled brain was unable to grasp, children under five (along with animals and lunatics) were able to see Sam as he really was. And that could (and had!) lead to all sorts of complications.

"Pleased to meet you, Sir." Sean responded politely.

The boy was in his Sunday best too, but he didn't seem to resent it. There was no sign of any fidgeting with the shirt collar or other indications of discomfort. They all went inside.

Caitlin headed straight for the kitchen, put the flowers in a cut glass vase, and brought them in to stand on the dresser, drinking in the scent of the summer blooms. She was accustomed to receiving flowers, but not from anyone other than her husband.

She was particularly flattered because she was acutely aware of the size of her waistline. As Sam had known she would be. The doctor in him recalled that pregnant women often feel dowdy and unattractive, particularly towards the end, and appreciated being reminded that they were still women. He was not flirting, of course. He found that skill evaded him at the best of times, and he was far too honorable to make advances to another man's wife, especially in front of him. He was just being polite, and thoughtful, and sensitive. He was being Sam Beckett.

Sean excused himself and went to wash his hands. Bill ushered 'David' to the table.

It was everything Sam expected it would be. Polished wooden chairs standing neatly to attention around an oval table; crisp linen tablecloth with embroidered border; floral centerpiece; best crystal glasses; gleaming stainless steel cutlery; neatly folded napkins. The aroma wafting in from the kitchen made his mouth water.

"I hope you haven't gone to a lot of trouble on my account, Mrs. Donahue?" Sam called to her, not adding, 'especially in your condition', but letting the implication hang in the air.

"Don't you fret now, its only stew, I'm afraid." She replied, humbly, "Now, sit yourself down, please."

Bill helped her to carry in the dishes – a rich Irish stew with small dumplings floating in a sea of gravy, a bowl of steaming green beans, and several others, all piping hot and full of good fare. Sean played his part, bringing in a wicker basket brim-full of bread rolls, fresh baked.

They all sat down, and clasped their hands together for prayers.

'Just like Home.' Thought Sam wistfully, 'Mom and Dad would have approved of these people.'

Bill and Cat noticed with relief that Sam had adopted the gesture naturally. They were not the sort of people to impose their beliefs on others and they were pleased that he obviously shared them. With or without guests, Sunday lunch was a special meal to them. Bill opened his mouth, about to offer up the prayer, when Caitlin stopped him:

"Perhaps our guest would care to lead the prayer?" she suggested, almost apologetically.

It was a possibility Sam had anticipated.

"I would be glad to." He replied, and began hesitantly, as if making it up as he went along.

"Lord, we thank Thee for Thy bounteous gifts; for good food and the generosity of friends, for the blessing of a new life soon to be welcomed amongst us. And we humbly ask for Thy guidance in our daily lives, that we may do Thy will in all things. Amen." It was a prayer from the soul.

"Amen." They echoed, in chorus.

Sam intercepted the look that passed between husband and wife, and dared to hope that his words had served to smooth his way. Caitlin thanked him sweetly, and piled his plate high with the piping hot food.

To say it was the best meal he'd had in years was a more literal truth than they could possibly have imagined, considering that the last meal he'd eaten that hadn't been microwaved straight from David's freezer had been in1957, and that one he'd cooked himself (or should that be 'herself'?). He savored every mouthful, and relaxed so much in the warmth and good company that he almost forgot his purpose.

They talked during the meal of many inconsequential things, such as Bill's hobby of photographing wildlife, evidence of which lined the walls. It was a hobby that he indulged at every opportunity, even at night:

"Cat bought me an Infra-red lens for my camera last Christmas, and I've managed to get some amazing shots."

From the examples around him, Sam knew it was not idle boasting on Bill's part.

"I'd love to see them all later, if I may." He was not just being courteous; Bill's enthusiasm for his subject was infectious.

It crossed Sam's mind to wonder if Bill's disappearance could be linked to a wild animal that objected to being captured on film.

Sam enquired politely how Sean was settling in at school, and heard how well he was reading and how he loved his music lessons. The boy's parents could not conceal their pride in him. Nor should they, Sam thought. He was a good boy, well-mannered, intelligent, but with a typical six-year olds sense of fun. He was a credit to them.

Sam asked about the progress of Caitlin's pregnancy. He wondered if she was suffering any problems such as swollen ankles, and whether or not the head had engaged yet, or if the baby was laying transverse or breech.

"Why, Mr. Beckett, you know a lot about the subject for a bachelor." She blushed. She would never dream of accusing him of having fathered a child of his own, but she was curious.

Sam said that he was sorry if he had caused her any embarrassment. He explained that he had a cousin who was a doctor, and he had picked up a lot from him. His 'cousin Sam' had come to his rescue many times when he had let his own knowledge or persona slip through.

He was really starting to feel at home. These were his sort of people, and this meal was so much like those he remembered back in Elk Ridge. When Caitlin served him a second helping of the delicious stew, he made no attempt to decline. He looked up and noticed Sean. The boy had almost finished his own meal, but his plate was still swimming in the rich brown gravy. They all had bread rolls on their side plates, and Sean picked his up and broke it, then started to lower it surreptitiously towards his plate. His hand froze mid-way as he caught a warning look from his mother, which clearly said:

"DON'T YOU DARE!"

Sam identified totally with the scene playing out before him. Bread and gravy was one of the greatest pleasures he could remember, but it was a luxury reserved strictly for 'at-home'. It was not for polite company. He could almost hear his own mother, Thelma, warning him about it, gently but firmly. He did not wish to offend his hosts, but the disappointment in Sean's crestfallen face made it impossible to resist the temptation. He picked up his own bread roll, broke it and wiped it around his plate, letting the gravy soak into the soft dough. With an exaggerated wink at Sean, he raised it as you would a glass in a toast, and took a huge bite, licking his lips as the gravy oozed from the corners of his mouth.

Sean's jaw dropped and he looked from their guest to his Dad, then to his Mom, and back again, his face saying to Sam:

"Oh boy, are **you** gonna get told off!"

Bill and Cat were stunned for a moment, unsure how to react. They caught the look between Sean and David, and then looked at each other.

They couldn't help it. They laughed.

Then, as one, they broke their own bread and copied Sam's gesture, nodding their permission to their son to do the same. Sam thought their laughter was the most marvelous sound he had heard in a long time.

Sean looked at him in amazement and wonder and gratitude:

"Awesome! Uncle Frank _said_ you were a hero!" he pronounced, his voice full of adulation.

Their laughter erupted again, and Sam's echoed with it. Would that heroes were made so easily. Yet Bill's merriment was tinged with concern. He was afraid his son had touched a raw nerve, just as he had done himself the day before. Sam noticed his tension, and guessed at its source. It reminded him sharply why he was there. He decided that now was not the time for modesty, and borrowed his best theatrical gestures from one Ray Hutton, an actor he'd once Leaped into in Syracuse:

"Yeah, that's right," he commented light-heartedly, "a regular Don Quixote, that's me!" (He remembered telling Al at the time that Leaping made him feel like he was living a Quixotic life.) He knew his Cervantes, and calculated that it would serve his purpose, his cause, very well at this stage. He went on:

"Fair chatelaine, gentle knights," with a nod to Cat, then Bill and Sean in turn, "if there be any among you who require assistance, you have but to ask, and my good right arm is at your service!"

He now brandished a long bread roll like a sword. He was trying to appear as if he were only joking, yet at the same time if they took his entertainment to be allegorical, then so much the better. The serious look in Bill's eyes, contrasting markedly with the laughter lines around his mouth, suggested that Sam had indeed struck gold.

The meal concluded with fresh fruit, cheese and biscuits, and Irish coffee (Sean had milk). The barriers had been well and truly broken down. Sam was confident he had won their trust. He insisted that he must be allowed to help clear the table and do the dishes. Bill volunteered too, while Caitlin packed Sean off to the neighbors, saying that his friend Errol was expecting him to go next door and play. Here it comes, thought Sam, they've been preparing for the moment too. He thanked Sean for his company and the boy giggled. Sam guessed that David's unorthodox behavior would be the topic of the afternoon.

Sean shook his proffered hand in a very mature way, and without prompting told Sam that it had been a pleasure to meet him.

Sam conferred upon him his friendliest wink, and the boy trotted out happily.

Over the kitchen sink, Sam looked for a way to get Bill to the point at last. He didn't know for sure if Caitlin was in full possession of the facts, though she obviously knew something.

So, now he'd finally got the elusive man alone, he didn't intend to wait a moment longer to find out what on earth this Leap was all about. One thing was evident. William Donahue would never leave his family willingly at this time, nor ever. If he was going to disappear, it was going to be the result of some accident, or more probably foul play. Sam rejected utterly his earlier suggestion to Al that it could be anything like gambling debts. Bill just wasn't the type. It was time to get some answers. Something was bringing tension into this happy home, and Sam intended to find out what. He decided that he would have to try a direct approach.

"Bill?"

"Yeah, what is it, David?"

"Tell me to mind my own business if I'm out of line, but is there something bugging you?"

Bill sighed audibly, his relief overwhelming. He'd been wondering how he was going to broach the subject. He had rehearsed it many times without finding a satisfactory opening. He had lain awake for most of the previous night imagining how the conversation would progress, trying to predict what David's reaction would be. Here at last was the moment they had prepared for, and David himself had given him so much encouragement it was almost as if he had read Bill's mind. He couldn't have hoped for better. Now it was all up to him. He took a deep breath, and let it out again, slowly.

"Since you mention it… It's probably nothing but –" oh brother, even now it was hard to put it into words. It sounded so outrageous, even to him.

"Go on. You know what they say about a problem shared."

"Right. I'm not at all sure if there is anything you or anyone can do though."

"Why don't you try me? Two heads are better than one and all that." Sam coaxed him. 'Come on.' He thought to himself, 'this is like getting blood out of a stone.'

"I don't know where to start." Bill confessed lamely.

'No kiddin', Sam refrained from retorting. If he hadn't come to know and like this family so much he might have let his frustration show. Might have grabbed Bill and shaken him in exasperation. He had frequently complained to Al that he was expected to right wrongs on a Leap before being in full possession of the facts; that he often ended up having to second guess himself; that he wished he'd had longer to assess the situation. But this was going to the other extreme. Sam was generally a very patient and even tempered man. It took a lot to provoke him. Yet some things would try the patience of a saint, and in his humble opinion, this situation could probably come close.

'Spit it out, man,' he thought, 'I'm getting older and greyer by the minute waiting for you. This looks like being the longest Leap in the history of Sam Beckett's History.'

Yet he was not going to get heavy with Bill. He would not risk destroying the confidence he had so carefully built up. He pretended to be absorbed in the task before him, examining the glass he had just washed for any traces of a stain, then placing it on the draining board with meticulous care.

"No problem, Bill. Take your time. Just start where you like and we'll fill in the gaps as we go, piece by piece. I'm very good at jigsaw puzzles."

"Since when?" Sam started visibly, almost dropping the plate he was in the middle of cleaning. He prayed Bill hadn't noticed. The voice had not been that of his host. Somehow, Sam had missed the whoosh of the door that usually announced the fact that his friend Al was joining the party. He was pleased to see him. Perhaps Al had some answers for him. But he gave his friend a withering stare. He _thought_ he remembered being good at jigsaws.

"He still hasn't told you what this is all about yet, then?" Al observed.

"I wouldn't be having this much trouble if it was Frank I was talking to." Countered Sam, looking at Al, but Bill took the rebuke as if it were aimed at him. Why wouldn't he? He still thought they were alone.

"You're right," he replied, "Sorry." He twisted the tea towel in his huge hands nervously; he was chewing his bottom lip. Then he took the plunge.

"It all started by accident. I noticed something at work. Come to think of it, I'm surprised you've never spotted it for yourself."

Sam looked at Al with an expression that clearly asked:

"Is there something you should have told me?"

Al looked blank. He fiddled with his hand-link.

"Noticed what?"

"We-ell, you know none of us was involved in building the computer complex? It was already constructed by the time the gang was hired."

Bill was backtracking, trying to remember exactly how he'd come to make his discoveries.

"Go on…" Sam didn't want to say what he did or didn't know.

"Well, I was looking for the site plans one day when I came across the blue prints for the existing complex. They had been tampered with, bits were missing, but even so I could tell that the ground elevation didn't match up with the existing building. I know it was none of my business, and I wish to God I'd never seen them. I should have left well alone, like Cat said. But I was curious. I had another look at the complex, paced it out inside and out. Sure enough, it doesn't add up, David. The building is bigger outside than in, by a good 2-3 meters on the west side. That's what I thought you might have noticed, given that you work so much around that area, and you being so all-fire smart, but I guess it isn't so obvious if you're not looking for it."

Al started pounding buttons; commanding Ziggy to get hold of the plans, verify the information. He knew it could take a while, especially if someone didn't want the information found.

"I have to admit the possibility never occurred to me." Put in Sam, with total honesty. "Do you know why the discrepancy?" he was starting to get that uneasy feeling again. Like were they talking skeletons in closets, and was Bill destined to become one?

"I'm not sure. I told Cat about it, and she sort of convinced me I must have been imagining things. It does sound a bit unlikely, doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily." Answered Sam. 'In fact, not at all.' He added silently. He was looking at Al, raised eyebrows asking 'Well?'

"Nothing yet, Sam." Al informed him, unsurprisingly, "We're working on it."

Sam knew there had to be more to it than that.

"What happened next?" he asked.

"Well, like I said, I thought I'd imagined it, so I sort of forgot about it for a spell. Then I was round the back last week unloading bags of sand for the cement. One of them split open and I bent down to clean up the mess." As he talked he was wiping the same plate over and over, until Sam thought he would wipe the pattern off.

"Anyhow, just then the Brothers Grimm walked past, whispering to each other all secretive. I guess they hadn't seen me 'cos I was the other side of the stack."

Al sniggered at his description of the Ruggiero boys:

"That's a good one, Sam. I like the way this guy thinks."

"I wasn't snooping, honest." Continued Donahue, "It's just that I was so close I couldn't help hearing a bit of their conversation."

Bill had the look of a freshman who had been caught cheating on his midterms. He was blatantly distressed by the memory.

"Don't worry, Bill." Sam tried to placate him, "I'm sure you meant no harm. But it had to be real important to get you this riled up. What was it they said?"

"I - I can't recall exactly, that's part of the problem. I keep hoping I didn't hear right. I don't **want** to believe it, David."

"Believe what?" retorted Al and Sam almost together. They were both getting impatient again now. Neither could imagine where this was leading, but it seemed to be taking forever to get there.

"From what they were saying, it sounded as if they had…. something… hidden in the complex. It sounded like they were dealing in **drugs**, David. I was scared witless, I just freaked out. I didn't know what to do. I-I still don't."

He looked crestfallen. It was out. He'd said it. And he didn't feel any better. He'd hoped he would.

Sam and Al exchanged astonished looks. It was starting to add up, and neither of them liked the totals they were getting.

"Who else have you told?" Sam asked, alarm bells ringing. This knowledge could certainly make Bill a prime candidate for a sudden disappearance. And there was an old saying about careless talk costing lives.

"Nobody; only Cat, and now you." Bill was shaking visibly. His top lip was soaked in sweat. Sam led him from the kitchen back into the other room, the last vestiges of washing up forgotten.

Caitlin was sitting on the couch, her feet resting on a stool as both men had ordered. She looked far from relaxed, however. As they came in, she put down the white matinee jacket she had been knitting. Her anxiety was reflected in the exaggerated tension of the stitches. This creation was clearly not up to her normal high standard of handiwork.

Bill sat next to his wife and they embraced. Cat searched her husband's face for the signs of relief she had expected to find, and was dismayed not to see them there. She looked to David Beckett, questioningly. He gave her a reassuring smile, and sat opposite them, in an easy chair. He didn't seem in the least perturbed about being drawn into this dreadful situation. He leant forward.  
"Have you thought about going to the police?"

"I haven't any proof. I could be wrong. I couldn't go to the cops; I was scared of losing my job." Bill's voice was tinged with desperation. "Oh, brother, you must think I'm a total wimp."

"No way." Sam hastily assured him. Far from contempt, Sam felt an even greater respect for the man. He understood perfectly how Bill's conscience would not allow him to ignore such a potential crime, how torn he was between his fear and his moral duty. Sam had been down that road many times himself.

Al had taken up a position behind the couch, his shirt – a riot of color, which resembled nothing so much as an explosion in a paint factory – contrasting sharply with the fine, precise embroidery on the cream linen anti-macassars. He chose his spot carefully, giving Sam a chance to look at him without appearing to take his attention from his hosts. It was a skill born of long practice, and was by now almost instinctive.

He finally confirmed the fact that the computer building appeared to have a hidden compartment.

"I don't like the sound of this, Sam. If that area is stacked full of heroin or crack cocaine, or E, or whatever the craze was for at the time, the street value must be millions. This is major league stuff. I got a bad feeling, buddy. I hope you aren't getting out of your depth on this one."

Sam shot him a look.

"I'm sure we can sort this out, if we just keep calm and don't lose our heads." He chastised his friend.

"We have to do _something_, don't we, David?" Bill's question was largely rhetorical. He was trying to convince himself as much as his newfound confidante.

"I'm scared." Caitlin frowned, "I told Bill it's not his responsibility. It's too risky for him to cross these people if they are mixed up with drugs. You hear such terrible things on the news. But I'm sure he's been planning something. We've never had secrets before. He just won't let go. Talk some sense into him, please, Mr. Beckett."

"Ziggy says its still 83 that he disappears, Sam. Do something."

"_Have_ you been planning something?" Sam asked frankly, afraid he already knew the answer. He looked Bill straight in the eye, willing him to tell the truth.

Bill squirmed. He took his arm from Cat's shoulder and wrung his hands together. He looked at his hands, avoiding the gazes of his wife and his friend. He hadn't meant Cat to know about this. He wanted to spare her the worry. Now, David's tone was compelling, insistent. He saw no alternative but confession.

"Uh, sorry, honey. I was gonna tell you I was heading off tonight to get some shots of that owl's nest I discovered. Then I was planning on sneaking back to work with the camera, see if I could get into the secret room and get some proof of what they have in there. There'll be nobody around tonight, no night shift, cos the work's all done, ready for tomorrow. I figured if I could get something on film, the cops would be able to put a stop to it."

Caitlin gasped. She gripped Bill's arm.

"No! You can't Bill! Tell him he **can't**." She looked at Sam in supplication, her eyes streaming with tears, her face blanched and filled with alarm.

"Yeah, Sam; tell him." Al ordered, pointing his unlit cigar at Bill.

"I agree, Bill. It's too dangerous for you. Your place is here with your family. They need you now more than ever."

"Keep talking, Sam," said Al, as his com-link flashed and beeped. "Ziggy says the odds on Bill's vanishing are dropping steadily."

"But we can't just let them get away with it." Bill was confused. He still felt this was too important to give up on, but he couldn't stand the look in his wife's eyes.

"You mustn't go, Bill. **Please**." Caitlin was getting increasingly frantic. She was shaking, short of breath. Sam was getting worried about her and the effect on her unborn child.

"Listen to me, both of you." Sam reached forward, taking Caitlin's hand in both of his, in a gesture of reassurance that also just happened to allow him to slip a finger to her wrist and check her pulse rate. "I can't let you do this, Bill."

"You've nearly got him, Sam, but the odds have stuck at 19."

Al thumped Ziggy's hand-link as if trying to push the odds down by brute force.

Sam tried to put himself in Bill's place, to think of something, anything, to convince him. With a sinking feeling, he realized there was only one argument that Bill couldn't refute. He changed tack.

"Can you tell me _exactly_ where this extra space is?" he asked Bill, or Al, it didn't matter which. He let go of Cat's hand; her heartbeat was beginning to return to normal.

"Sure thing." Bill reached for the pad and pen, which they kept by the telephone. He drew Sam a very clear plan.

"Where's this leading?" asked Al, hoping he didn't already know the answer.

"Would you trust me to borrow your camera?" Sam asked Bill, deliberately turning away from his spectral friend.

Ziggy squealed

For a moment, Al looked elated. He jogged up and down with excitement:

"You've done it, Sam! Bill's safe."

Then his face fell. The thick eyebrows knitted as he pored over the information being fed to him. This was precisely what he'd been afraid of. He gripped the instrument as if he would like to crush it.

"Uh-oh. **No**, Sa-am," Al's voice was positively dripping with warning, but Sam wasn't listening. He was pressing his point home.

"…. It's all settled." He announced firmly, to all three of them.

"I'll take the camera and go to the site at midnight tonight, get the proof we need. By dawn tomorrow, their sordid little operation will be over once and for all."

He sounded far more confident than he felt. The Donahue's were relieved, but still concerned. Caitlin was objecting:

"We can't ask you to do this, Mr. Beckett. You said yourself it could be dangerous."

But Sam couldn't back down now. He knew it with a certainty that knotted his gut.

"You haven't asked," he pointed out, as if semantics were the only vital issue at stake, "I volunteered, remember?"

Al was stammering, waving his cigar around; desperately trying to get Sam's attention. He walked through the couch and stood almost nose-to-nose with his friend.

"Sam. You gotta tell them you need to go to the can. We _have_ to discuss this. Are you listening to me, Sam? **SAM**…."

But Sam was taking no more notice of the hologram than the Donahues were. He decided to resort to the theatrical again.

"I told you, I'm a regular Don Quixote. I must have my windmills to tilt at; my noble quest. And I can't think of any nobler cause than keeping this stuff off the streets, can you?"

Now he looked pointedly at Al, who stared back at him in disbelief. Three mouths opened to protest, but he didn't give any of them the chance. He was well versed in Leigh and Darion too. He launched into song:

"Hear me, heathens and wizards and serpents of sin

All your dastardly doings are past.

For a Holy endeavor is now to begin

And virtue shall triumph at last!"

"I sure hope so, Sam,"' Al finally managed to get out; "Because Ziggy says that now Bill doesn't disappear, but it's 96 that David does. **You** do, Sam. Be careful, buddy. Be very careful."

Where Caitlin had been amused before, she was now incredulous:

"How can you be so casual?"

"I'm with her." Came the aside from Al, who nodded at Cat, as if to say, 'Listen to her, she is talking more sense than you are.'

"Fear not, fair maiden." Again, he ignored his friend. Then he changed his tone, no longer theatrical, speaking from the heart:

"Seriously, don't worry, Mrs. Donahue." The reassurance was aimed at Al as well, but he was having none of it. He shook his head slowly.

"My father taught me that if you face every difficult situation in life with courage and Faith in the Lord, Someone will watch over you."

Sam's eyes met Al's in silent command.

"I'll be there, Sam." He promised.


	12. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Sam knew Al had been right when he'd suggested on the way home that he should snatch a few hours sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. He paced the floor.

He'd finally learnt the facts behind this Leap, and he was not at all sure he had made the right move, going full bore into it like that, ranting about quests and windmills like it was all some sort of game.

The fact that it was the only move he _could_ have made didn't make it any easier. It was too late now to be embarrassed by his display of bravado, to have second thoughts about how he had handled the situation. He could just hear Al's "I told you so" if he admitted that he regretted his rashness. No. He would have to see it through, because if _he_ didn't, the odds were way too high that Bill would. At least Sam had two major advantages – foreknowledge and an invisible friend called Al.

He decided to use the waiting time to profit by planning his crime meticulously. He was under no illusions that he was about to commit a crime, and that in itself went against the grain. He wouldn't normally condone breaking and entering, but he felt morally justified if it meant exposing a far worse offence. He'd sat hunched over David's computer, booting up disks, searching through directories for the information he felt sure he should find. Yes, there it was: The schematics for the security system at the complex. The alarms were computer controlled as he had suspected. It didn't take him very long to work out where the control box was located and how to deactivate it. Piece of cake.

He had checked and rechecked that the film was loaded in Bill's camera; that the Infrared lens was screwed on tight. He looked at his watch once again, going over every detail in his mind. He was confident that he had convinced Bill to stay at home. He had done his best to put their minds at ease, had promised to phone in the morning. He'd instructed them to get a good night's sleep. He wondered when he would get a chance to sleep again. No doubt he would get the incriminating evidence, hand the film over to Bill, and be Leaping out some time tomorrow morning. Leaping into who-knew-what. He wondered on what sort of bed/bunk/hammock/couch/cot/floor he would next lay his weary head.

'Typical,' he thought, 'I've been here all this time, but I'll be gone before Tuesday. Another missed birthday.'

He had, of course, celebrated this particular birthday before, but having lost – how many? – through Leaping, a re-run of an earlier one would not have been unwelcome, even if he had to mark the occasion alone and in secret.

Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, he decided it was still far too early to leave.

He opted for a long soak in a hot tub, hoping it would help him to relax and unwind.

It didn't.

He was just kidding himself, expecting anything to make this situation less nerve-racking. He was only killing time. Eventually, he conceded that if he stayed put any longer he'd end up wrinkled as a sun-dried Californian raisin. He emerged from the bath and replaced the Sunday best with a more practical and inconspicuous navy-blue jogging suit.

He didn't expect to be returning to David's bachelor pad for any significant length of time, so he set about leaving it as he thought David ought to find it. Conspicuous by their absence were the dirty coffee cups, and empty beer cans. No pile of dirty laundry littered the floor at the foot of the bed, but that sort of homely touch would be down to David to furnish for himself when he returned.

Sam placed borrowed books back in their rightful places on the shelves, filed discs back in their boxes, and resisted the urge to add footnotes to some of David's projects in his little black note books. He put fresh linen on the bed. He restored CD's to their place in the stack. He removed the videotape from the VCR and replaced it in the cabinet. Then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction, glancing automatically at his watch. He knew that traffic would be light at this time of night, and the journey wouldn't take him nearly as long as it had the day before. Still, he was anxious to be off, to get on with the job, rather than this interminable waiting. He resumed his pacing.

At long last he calculated that it was time to make his move. He picked up Bill's camera and slung the strap around his neck. Then he took David's car keys and went out, carefully making sure the door was locked behind him.

Driving through the sultry LA night in David's T-bird, Sam tried to imagine all the places David might have been going, had he been in a position to decide for himself. He looked at the other cars cruising the highway and wondered where the other young men of the city were going to or coming from on this summer Sunday night. He thought of all the places **he** would rather be going, given the choice.

But he was never given the choice.

He went where he was sent and did what he had to do, in the hope that eventually it would be enough; that Whoever or Whatever was controlling his life would finally be satisfied and allow him to go home. Really Home. Not just to a place where he laid his hat and stopped awhile, but to a proper home, where he belonged. Where people knew his name and his face and they were always the same name and face – his own.

Not that he didn't derive an enormous amount of job satisfaction from helping people, he did. It meant a lot to him. But then, so did Home. Oh boy, how he yearned to go Home. This time, as every time, he said to himself:

'Maybe this will be it, maybe this is the one that will get me home.'

He had to keep that hope alive; to keep believing. Without that faith, he had nothing; was nothing.

He drove past an imposing church, where several members of the congregation were gathering ready for a Midnight Vigil, in support of loved ones in some dire distress.

"Say one for me while you're in there," he requested quietly.

Even driving slowly, he pulled into the parking lot at 11:45. He switched off the lights and the engine and sat waiting for Al to materialize beside him. Picking up the camera from where he'd placed it on the passenger seat; he put the strap over his neck once more, and gave the lens a twist. All set.

He waited.

And waited.

The car started to feel stuffy. He got out and strolled across the deserted lot, searching for the familiar glow that meant Al's door had opened. The area remained stubbornly dark. Sam dared to press the light switch on his watch and study the time. Not quite the witching hour yet. There was nothing to worry about.

He'll be here, Sam told himself. He has still got time to tear himself away from whatever dalliance he's no doubt indulging in.

Sam went back to the car and popped the trunk. Might as well get ready. He removed a set of jump leads, which he tossed over his shoulder. He pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he reached in and took hold of a large pair of wire cutters. He picked up a torch, but decided against using it yet. He closed the trunk.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Sam was getting impatient. The whole region was completely deserted, but he felt exposed, vulnerable. Where on earth was Al?

'Perhaps he's gone inside.' Sam decided. 'Yeah, that's it. He's gone ahead and he's waiting for me inside. He's sticking his holographic head into that secret compartment right now so that he can rub my nose in it by describing in graphic detail exactly what I'm gonna find in there. Good old Al.'

Secure in this certainty, he proceeded to approach the electrified fence. He squared himself up and took a deep breath. Nerves steeled. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. He wiped them away with his sleeve. He drew in a long breath and let it go slowly.

Here goes.

He grabbed the jump leads firmly in both hands. Squeezing the crocodile clips open, he reached forward and hooked them on the fence to preserve the circuit. Then he took the wire cutters and carefully clipped the fence between the leads. Thank goodness for rubber-soled shoes, he thought as he ducked through the gap he had created, and skirted his way around the edge of the site to the complex.

In the darkness, he stubbed his toe on something. He stopped in his tracks and looked down, risking a quick burst of torchlight. He saw it was a pickaxe, with a long wooden handle and a dull, well worn head. Bending down on impulse, he picked it up, and carried it with him. He reasoned that if any drugs were concealed in crates ready for shipping out, he could use the pickaxe like a crow bar to lever them open and photograph inside.

Reaching the complex, he quickly located the control box and de-programmed the alarm. Then he went inside.

"Al? You in here?" even whispering, his voice echoed round the vaulted ceiling as it had when he first Leaped in. The place was even more eerie than it had been then, the darkness giving it an almost cathedral-like quality.

Once more he found himself longing for company. Specifically, Admiral Albert Calavicci, Project Observer.

"A-al, come out, come out, wherever you are." He commanded, confident his friend would pop through the wall in his customary manner, making some flippant or snide remark, trying to score points off his friend and looking every inch the jack-in-the-box.

Sam remained alone.

"Have it your own way." He tried to sound nonchalant, as if he didn't care, but his confidence was waning.

It was too late to go back. The hole was in the fence. He had to find the evidence now, with or without Al, or it would be David who fell foul of the law. He pressed on, aware as he walked that the strange odor that reached his nostrils every time he entered the complex was getting stronger the nearer he got to the spot marked on Bill's map. He now guessed it had something to do with the concealed narcotics, but it didn't smell like heroin, or coke, or smack, or E, or any of the other common 'illegal substances'.

Yet it was still familiar.

He shook his head, trying to free the memory trapped inside. It stubbornly refused to come.

By now he had reached the wall, which wasn't a wall. He searched for a hidden control or switch to make it open, a spring, a catch, anything. He could detect nothing. Not in the floor, nor the wall, nor anywhere around.

Could Bill have been imagining it? No. Al had confirmed the plans didn't tally with the construction. There was something there. Sam tapped the wall beside him, and then the one in front. They sounded different. This one was definitely hollow. The false panel was very cunningly concealed. It was not surprising that it hadn't been discovered before. Even a close examination by torchlight showed not even the slightest sign of a join, no hinges, no indication whatsoever that the wall could move. It was probably triggered by a remote control, he decided, to prevent accidental discovery by the wrong party.

Sweat rolled into his eyes again and he wiped it away. The atmosphere was really oppressive. He was more nervous than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Al's continued failure to show himself was also increasingly worrying him. Not that his companion-at-arms hadn't often cut things pretty fine in the past – like leaving him to almost crash the X-2 rocket plane he'd found himself trying to pilot on his very first Leap, all because Al couldn't tear himself away from a ball-game. Still, one of the few constants in Sam's crazy lives was the fact that Al was **always** there when Sam really needed him. Good old solid, ethereal, dependable Al.

Except that Sam needed him now.

He really needed him.

So where was he?

"Al, you get your butt in here right now, do you hear me? Or so help me I'll…."

Frustration rose to fever pitch in Sam. He wanted this over and he wanted out. Testing the weight of the pickaxe he was carrying, he lifted it up, swung it around, and attacked the corner of the wall with it, levering the false panel open.

He didn't find crates of drugs.

He found a huge metal door.

He suddenly pictured himself forcing open the door to reveal another door, and then another, and yet another, an infinite number of Russian doll doors, his whole future nothing but a series of doors leading nowhere. Like playing pass the parcel but with no prize at the end – with no end.

What if he found nothing? Where would he go then?

He took a picture of the crumpled panel, revealing the inner door.

Just in case they managed to camouflage it again by the time the cops turned up. Like when Roberto/Sam had tried to expose the nerve gas factory hidden at a pesticide plant, but they'd gone back to find all trace of the gear gone.

Closer examination revealed a control this time. This was no mere storage cupboard. It was an elevator! He pressed the button and the doors slid open. Stepping inside, he touched the control that would send it down. There was something beneath the complex. The operation must have taken years of planning. This thing was way bigger than any of them had suspected. Why would they need an underground room to store drugs? The street value was incalculable. Perhaps it was an international operation.

The smell was getting stronger. The bad feeling Sam had experienced throughout this Leap was increasing in direct proportion.

What was keeping Al? He had never broken a promise before.

He'd better have a **real** good excuse for being this late.

Sam hoped his friend wasn't sick, or had an accident.

He could never have begun to imagine what was really preventing Al's arrival.

The elevator bumped to a sudden halt and Sam waited for the doors to open. When they did, the sight that greeted his eyes caused him to draw his breath in sharply and let it go with a whistle. The pickaxe slipped through his fingers and clattered unnoticed to the floor.

It wasn't just a storehouse.

It was a huge, cavernous laboratory.

Better equipped than the one at MIT where a young Samuel Beckett had conducted under-graduate experiments.

Rows of wooden worktops stretched as far as the eye could see. Each was laden with crates of test tubes, jars of compounds of various sizes and colors, Bunsen burners, pipettes, spatulas, the works. Huge complicated networks of tubes and bottles and beakers boiled and bubbled and steamed.

Lining the walls were cages of test animals – mice, rats, rabbits, kittens, and small dogs: dozens of them. They scampered about nervously in Sam's torchlight. That was one aspect of Science that a caring Dr Beckett always found hard to come to terms with. He didn't believe that inflicting suffering on any creature could ever be justified, even if it prevented the suffering of another.

To him, all life was precious, and of equal validity.

The smell now was all pervading. Bill had certainly been right about drugs, but he'd been way off about the level of involvement. They weren't just into storing and supplying drugs. They weren't merely trafficking. They were actually creating them. They were manufacturing designer drugs!

"Oh boy!" Sam shook his head to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Millions of dollars worth of narcotics were being made here. Sam was appalled; all those lives to be screwed up.

He knew the pattern; addicts turning to theft or prostitution to support their habit, violent crimes committed by desperate junkies. The implications were horrendous.

It struck him suddenly how ironic it was: an illegal operation of this magnitude, taking place literally under the foundations of the new Court House. That took some gall on Ruggiero's part. Talk about a perfect cover.

Then Sam reached for Bill's camera. Checking one last time that the infrared lens was firmly in place, he moved along the benches, snapping every detail. When the LAPD got a load of this, they would lock these guys up and throw away the keys. He paused to turn a container around so that the label would show clearly in the photograph. He wanted this evidence to be irrefutable.

Looking at the number of exposures remaining, he turned around and made his way back up the other side of the lab, clicking repeatedly. Nearly done, he thought with a sense of relief. He wouldn't be at all sorry to get out of there. The smell was faintly nauseating, and he still couldn't shake the feeling that it should remind him of something. The feeling he'd had since the moment he first Leaped in. It was incredibly frustrating; what was the use of having a photographic memory when most of the negatives were locked up in the dark room and he didn't have the key.

Now, then - just a couple more.

Then it happened: the trigger that brought the memory flooding back.

The camera panned round and focused on one of the lab animals in its cage. A large white rabbit with saucer like eyes. Just like the one in 'Alice' thought Sam irrelevantly.

But it was the eyes that did it.

They were wide with terror, and the poor thing was shaking all over, pawing at his ears in a frenzy of fear. Sam had seen that look before, and now he knew where.

He let go of the camera, letting it dangle on its strap around his neck, while he reached forward and opened the cage. The rabbit shrank back form his outstretched hands, panic written all over its terrified face. Then it lunged at him and scratched his arm. He ignored the sudden sting, and grasped the creature firmly but gently, pulling it out of the cage and cradling it close to his chest. He stroked its head and keened to it softly to calm it down. Despite himself, tears welled up in his eyes, both in response to the animal's torment, and to the memories that it stirred within him…

It had been sometime in '97, he thought. He couldn't remember exactly, but the date wasn't important.

'Crazy,' he thought, 'I'm having a "flashback" to something that hasn't happened yet. A flash forward?' Sometimes Leaping played havoc with the tenses.

He and Al had been working on Project Quantum Leap, overseeing the construction of the secret headquarters in the New Mexican desert. The details of that were still sketchy, especially minor details like how on earth the whole project worked, and how he could get Home, but this particular day now stood out clearly.

Al had been driving him to Washington to negotiate extra funding for the Project, and they had stopped en route for gas. There was a commotion at the gas station. Two youths, high on drugs, were clowning about on the flat roof, trying to outdo each other in acts of daring. A crowd had gathered, watching with morbid curiosity, certain it would end in disaster, but too spell bound to interfere.

Sam sized up the situation at a glance, and signaled to Al his intention to intervene. At that moment, everything had gotten completely out of hand. One of the lads had been doing cartwheels and handstands, and suddenly he had run out of roof. He realized in the instant before he fell, eyes widening in shock as he began flailing his arms wildly like a windmill. His friend made a playful grab for him, not comprehending, and missed. They both tumbled, seemingly in slow motion, toward the ground. While the rest of the crowd stood rooted to the spot, Sam was galvanized into action. He darted forwards.

Both boys were so loaded that they seemed unaware of their injuries. He reached the second boy first. He had been relaxed when he fell; no doubt he'd thought he'd been flying. Miraculously, he had sustained no serious injuries. He had landed awkwardly on his shoulder and dislocated it. Unbelievably, he actually giggled when Sam re-set it. Boy, had he been out of it. On another planet.

The other youth had not been so lucky. One leg was tucked at an odd angle under the other one. His face had an almost transparent look to it. His breathing was shallow, and as Sam examined him, it stopped altogether. Sam didn't hesitate; giving mouth to mouth even as he looked to make sure Al was calling for an ambulance. That was when Sam had first smelt the nauseating odor. It had been on the lad's breath – the stench of the drugs he'd been snorting. Sam had needed to steel himself not to gag then, to keep up the artificial respiration until he got a reaction.

No wonder Bill and the others had not been bothered by the smell. This stuff hadn't hit the streets yet. It couldn't possibly mean anything to them.

Sam remembered insisting to Al that they follow the youths to the hospital. He always liked to see things through. Al had protested, claiming the urgency of their business, but Sam was adamant that Washington would still be there in the morning.

This, he said, was more important. Al knew better than to try to talk his friend out of something once he'd set his mind on it. It was his single-minded determination that got Project Quantum Leap off the ground in the first place.

They'd spent ages waiting while the worst casualty had undergone surgery for internal injuries, and to repair his shattered leg. The other lad had been checked over and settled into a bed for observation.

Sam looked in on him. His name was apparently Deke. He'd looked distant at first, still out of it, but as Sam stood there, wondering what possessed kids of – couldn't be more than seventeen - to experiment with these noxious substances, he'd begun to change.

The narcotics were wearing off, and he was getting withdrawal symptoms, just like the poor rabbit now. And it was the exact same expression; the terror in the eyes; the clawing at the hair and body in desperation, like he could feel something horrific crawling all over him. The petrified screams, the panic ridden jerking of the legs and head, as if all the daemons of Hades were after him.

Sam had restrained him gently, preventing him from hurting himself further. Talked to him; calmed him.

Al always teased Sam about his bedside manner, and how he shouldn't waste it on the sick. If it were up to Al, with his overactive libido, a technique like that would be reserved for use on a foxy chick.

But Sam wasn't Al, and he could never stand idly by and watch another suffer if it were in his power to help. Al accused him of being a fully paid up member of the white hat brigade. It was something they had long since agreed to differ on.

Deke had lashed out, kicking, punching, swearing, struggling wide-eyed like the rabbit. He was sweating profusely. But then - as now - Sam held firm, patient, reaching out with body and mind, drawing him back to reality.

And eventually it had worked.

Deke broke down and cried like a baby, clinging on to Sam, letting all his emotions pour out, until he was exhausted. Then he'd slept: the face calm at last.

His friend Scott pulled through too, Sam recalled, though he walked with a pronounced limp from that day onwards. Sam had kept in touch for a while, as far as his security-restricted occupation permitted. They weren't bad kids, they had just got mixed up with the wrong crowd and been led astray. He had given them moral support and encouragement and advice. He had made certain they would never touch the stuff, or anything like it, again.

They had told him it was called Rapture, but they all agreed that there was nothing in the least rapturous about it. The brief high they had experienced was nowhere near worth the depths to which they had literally plunged afterward. It had taken weeks of hard work and suffering to purge their systems of the physical withdrawal symptoms and the cravings forever. Sam had seen the effects of drug dependence before, of course. As an intern, he'd seen quite a few cases. Yet somehow this was worse than anything he'd encountered before. The period of 'cold turkey' had taken longer to burn itself out, and there had been no suitable substitute to alleviate the dreadful abdominal cramps, the pains in the back and legs, the muscle spasms, the chills and fever, the weakness that kept them bedridden yet restless, the nausea and vomiting and diarrhea, which caused them to lose several pounds in weight before their appetites returned. It had taken tremendous courage to go through that ordeal and come out the other side with their sanity intact. Nobody should have to suffer like that.

It had made Sam very angry.

It made him angry now.

He snapped his mind back to the present (his past; whatever) as he felt the poor creature shudder and then stiffen in his arms. Poor thing: its heart just couldn't stand the strain. Sam was crying unashamedly now, tears of grief and anger. He laid the rabbit gently on the floor of the cage, and then his rage exploded.

He swept his hand across the nearest bench, sending phials and jars and canisters cascading to the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, and crunched under his feet as he rushed headlong down each aisle, smashing everything in sight.

There are times when even the most placid man is driven to wrath, and this was one of those times when turning the other cheek wasn't enough.

Here, Sam realized, was where it had all started, where the formula for Rapture had been developed. Where the whole filthy chain began. And if he stopped it now, Scott and Deke couldn't take it in a couple of years' time. They and hundreds of other kids would be spared the torture.

He thanked God for giving him this mission. It had become personal.

Adrenalin pumping, Sam was in his stride now.

"Hoo-ya!" he yelled, as he rampaged around the lab, leaving devastation in his wake. He was sure his brother Tom would approve.

As he passed each cage, he flung it open, liberating the pathetic strung out victims inside, although it broke his heart to see that most of the animals were too scared or too far gone to take advantage of their new found freedom. This observation only spurred him on all the more.

He was so engrossed in his crusade that he had not seen the elevator doors close, nor had he heard the whine of the pulleys as it had disappeared back to the surface. Neither was he aware when it descended again, and the doors slid open to reveal the Ruggiero brothers, standing side by side like a pair of burly book ends.

His back was to them, and the first he knew of their arrival was when Guido jumped him, grabbing both his arms and pulling them forcefully behind his back, pinning them in a vice like grip.

Sam vaguely remembered having been trained in several of the martial arts, but the requisite skills eluded him now. He cursed his Swiss-cheese memory as he struggled in vain to free himself, kicking out wildly, catching his captor on the shin.

This maneuver merely earned him a knee brought sharply up into his left kidney. He heard a gasp of pain and was not surprised to discover it had come from him. A nearby lab puppy whimpered in sympathy, but was too weak to lend assistance.

Having switched on the lights, Marco moved around to face Sam, as his twin dragged his captive toward the elevator doors.

"Who'sa been a naughty boy, then?" Marco sneered, bringing up the back of his hand and slapping Sam hard across his face, snapping his head sideways with the force of the blow. The signet ring on Marco's finger traced a crease across Sam's cheek, and he felt warm blood trickle down.

"Eet was vera careless ova you to leave dat distinctive car of yours parked righta outaside lika dat, Beckett." Guido tutted.

'Dammit,' thought Sam, 'I should have thought of that.' Sam would have kicked himself, but he didn't think the brothers needed any help in that department.

Marco looked at his brother over Sam's shoulder with a knowing smile, and said in a voice laden with veiled threats:

"We'll hava to do something about _that_ as well."

Marco grabbed the camera, bouncing forgotten against Sam's chest, and ripped it from him, breaking the strap in two. Sam wriggled in a vain attempt to prevent him.

"And whata hava we here?" the giant asked. He pulled open the back of the camera and yanked out the film, tossing it aside like a discarded cigarette butt. Then he casually let go of the camera, dropping it in front of him, among the debris. He slowly ground the lens into the floor with his heel, his mouth twisted in a cruel grin, as if he were imagining it to be Sam's face beneath his shoe.

Sam was still struggling, but Guido held firm. He was getting nowhere. Marco closed in on him, so that he felt like the filling in a sandwich: Pork – at a Bah Mitzvah. He shouldn't be here.

Sam abhorred violence in any shape or form. In his experience it rarely solved anything satisfactorily. He abhorred it most especially when he was on the receiving end.

Marco loomed over him. His breath smelt of garlic. His eyes were full of menace.

"You'va been busy, haven't you?" Marco observed, indicating the surrounding mess. Then he swiftly drew back his arm. Before Sam had a chance to register the movement, the fist shot forward like a piston, ramming him hard in the solar plexus. He doubled over with a groan, and would have collapsed to the floor, had Guido not yanked him sharply back to his feet, almost ripping his arms from their sockets in the process. Sam felt like a marionette, not in control of his own movements. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

He decided to change tactics, and abandoned his futile struggling, letting the tensed, strained muscles relax a little.

"Why?" he asked, still wheezing from the blow, "Why get involved in all this?" he surveyed the lab.

"Your names would have been remembered for a great breakthrough in engineering, instead of for this sleaze. I can't believe something so brilliant as all that up there –" he jerked his head to the ceiling, indicating the computer control room, the automated machines, all of it, "was just a cover for **this**." He spat the word out contemptuously.

Then he tried appealing to their better natures. He should have realized they didn't possess such a thing.

"What would your poor mother have said to all this?"

"Shaddup!" snarled Marco, simultaneously punching Sam on the jaw and kneeing him in the groin. "You leava our Mama out of dis."

'This is not going at all well' thought Sam, through the blur of burning pain and the taste of blood from a split lip, which was already starting to swell up. His teeth seemed to rattle in his head.

Then, 'I should have kept hold of the pickaxe,' he admonished himself, 'I should have been better prepared. I should have waited for Al.'

As if reading his mind, Marco dodged suddenly round him and grabbed the tool by its head.

'Exhibit A' thought Sam.

The last thing he saw in the split second before he lost consciousness was the pickaxe handle hurtling towards his skull, with all the unnecessary force of the infamous sledgehammer being used to crack the proverbial nut.


	13. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Al was not at all happy about the way this Leap was progressing.

Sam had achieved his primary objective – William Donahue was safe. Yet Sam hadn't Leapt. He had merely substituted one victim for another, and now the victim was to be David/Sam Beckett. He hoped Sam knew what he was doing. Back in his room, Al paced impatiently. Here it was lunchtime on a chilly November Wednesday, but to Sam it was Sunday evening, 6th August, and they had an assignation at midnight.

Although he'd told Sam to get some sleep, he doubted if his friend would be any more relaxed about the arrangement than he was. He pictured Sam measuring the floor of David's room in exactly the same way that he was pacing now.

He resisted the urge to go straight back and wait it out with Sam.

Another mistake.

He should have followed his standard practice and given in to his urges. But he didn't want his friend to know how anxious he was; didn't want to make Sam even more edgy than he was already.

Al made up his mind to get to the site ahead of Sam and have a good look round. He instructed Ziggy to keep running possible scenarios, to keep him informed, and to give him an alarm call when it was time for him to head back to the Imaging Chamber.

Then he set about inventing urgent matters that demanded his attention. Had he known even half of what was about to happen, he would have curbed his inventiveness.

In the Waiting Room, David Beckett had settled into a routine over the past couple of days. He was well fed, not ill treated, and although technically a prisoner, he did not feel oppressed in any way. His reluctant kidnappers bent over backwards to make his stay as comfortable as possible.

He received frequent visits from a woman who called herself Dr Beeks. She was pleasant and friendly: though obviously a shrink. She persisted is asking him all sorts of unnecessary questions, no doubt trying to determine if he was becoming unbalanced by his 'ordeal'. He kept trying to reassure her that to him the experience was not in the least traumatic. He felt as if he had stepped into the Twilight Zone, or been beamed right through the Bajoran wormhole. It was the most fun he had ever had.

They had made the room seem almost homely. He'd been provided with a TV and VCR and given access to endless tapes (though it was set so that he could only play tapes, he couldn't watch the news or anything.)

They had lent him some of Sam's favorite books from the Project library. Many were his favorites too. He was confident that his impersonator would not be taking liberties with his character.

After a bit of badgering, they had even been persuaded to dig up an old spare computer from a dusty office for him to use. They took pains to point out that they could not give him access to the very latest technology. That was the only annoying part. There he was, full of insatiable curiosity - just like the Elephant's child – about this Brave New World, but every time he asked leading questions, he was frustrated by evasive answers. His keen intellect was piqued.

They were not allowed to let him have details pertaining to the future in general, or his in particular, lest he should change it, wittingly or otherwise, through deja vu. In a bizarre contradiction, they also told him that he may well have no recollection of the experience whatsoever when he returned to his own time.

He wished they would make up their minds.

Still, he determined to live for the moment, and make the most of it. He even managed a few small triumphs, like being the first person, (among his contemporaries) to watch the video of the "Dr Who' blockbuster movie he'd heard so many rumors about. Admiral Loud-Shirt had decided that he knew enough about it already for it to be safe to allow him that concession. He was thrilled, although after all the speculation, the final choice of Paul McCann to play the Doctor had been surprising, and a little disappointing. He'd been hoping for someone with more international street-cred.

Now the Admiral really was a strange one.

He didn't fit any image of an Admiral that David had ever come across. (Unless perhaps it was a Red Admiral butterfly!) Not even in the weirdest Sci-Fi tale. His visits were rare and usually brief. He always looked annoyed, though not surprised, to find David still there each time he walked in. David noticed that he seemed unable to look him in the eye. He appeared uncomfortable whenever he was around David, as if he was looking at someone else, someone who wasn't there. The man whose face he was wearing, David supposed. It was certainly a weird situation.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Not quite.

The computer was the source of many a happy hour. It may be virtually obsolete by their standards, but it was State-of-the-Art to him. A couple of years can be several generations in hardware technology.

He began by messing about with a few basic programs to get the feel of it. It was very user friendly. His captors took a polite but vague interest, and didn't interfere. They left him pretty much to his own devices.

That was when he got The Idea.

Ever since that first visit, when the colorful Admiral had produced the small hand held implement, which he used to communicate with the main machine, David had been intrigued by the computer they referred to as Ziggy. He'd tried to puzzle out if that was an acronym for something, but had to give up: insufficient data.

He kept asking the Admiral – what was his name? Calavicci – if he could have access to it. It seemed like he was in charge, had the authority to make decisions. He always answered with a polite but firm No. He became officious and hinted at Official Secrets and Need-to-Know and Security Clearance. That, of course, just made David curioser and curioser. He refused to give up on his questions, and managed to get the little Napoleon to let a few things slip. It was a parallel hybrid computer, whatever that was supposed to mean – sounded more like a prize-winning plant! There was something about neuro-cells and bio-feedback. It was fascinating. From the little he'd heard, David thought that this Ziggy had to come the closest to achieving actual sentience of any computer ever created.

Evidently it was highly experimental; hence the monumental blunder which had led to David's being there in the first place. From what he could gather, the only person who had a hope in hell of sorting the whole mess out was the guy whose brainchild it had been. No one else understood it well enough.

Trouble was, that just happened to be the man who was currently walking a mile in his moccasins. Bit of bad management there somewhere. But David wasn't complaining. As far as he could tell, he had gotten the best side of the bargain. He tried to imagine what it must be like for this other Beckett, who had apparently been borrowing other people's lives for the past three or four years or more. David didn't know all the details, but he guessed that despite the thrill of the adventure, which at first he'd envied, by now the novelty would certainly have worn off.

For his part, David had to admit that while this was an incredible place to visit, he didn't think he'd want to spend the rest of his life here, especially not given the current restrictions. Still, he had definitely come out on top. If only he could find out more about this place and time.

He had no intention of trying to win a fortune betting on the known outcome of the next World Series, or making a killing on Wall Street, or stealing some new invention and claiming it as his own. He had much too much integrity for that. It was just that for his own personal satisfaction he wanted to find out as much as he could, particularly about the super computer.

So, in between the run-of-the-mill subroutines he'd been playing around with, he began working on a new program.

The Idea.

Hands flew like lightening over the keyboard. He worked on file handlers; he searched data files. He knew he could find a route, the complex was multi-linked and he quickly gained entry into the network. Then he began in earnest. All he needed was to penetrate the firewall (which was pretty impressive) and work out the right access code. And he had enough in common with the genius Dr Beckett that he stood an excellent chance of working out what it would be. So, as they say: Go figure.

Making sure he could switch to something innocuous if he were being observed, he proceeded to hack his way into the illusive Ziggy.

He knew it may take some time, it wasn't going to be easy, and there was the possibility he could be snatched back to his own time without warning before he succeeded, but what the heck, he was going to give it his best shot.

Just because it was there; and he thrived on challenge.

By this time it was Sunday evening, real time – by which he meant LA time. His environment had been maintained in the illusion of LA time to reduce disruption and, he suspected, to keep him in ignorance of much about where and when he really was. He was fed according to LA time, slept according to LA time. His hosts were very obliging, fitting in with a routine that was comfortable to him, even if it meant bringing him lunch at what seemed like 2am local time (judging by the yawns).

Even so, it felt like he'd been there longer than two and a half days. He got the impression that somehow time moved at a different rate outside his room. The continuum wasn't constant, but rather relative – like the dimensions inside and out of the TARDIS. He could turn this into a passable screenplay for 'The X-Files' or 'The Outer Limits' or 'The Twilight Zone', if only he could remember any of it. He suspected that the charade was perpetuated by some tricks they pulled while he slept. Perhaps his food was drugged so that he slept longer than he thought. Perhaps he was somehow being hypnotized.

He didn't know. But he felt no ill effects, so he didn't much care.

Let them play their time games. He was playing a few games of his own, and he had already eliminated numerous possibilities and broken down one or two preliminary barriers.

He minimized his program and flicked to a half completed game of Solitaire he'd left in the background as the Admiral came in, fidgeting nervously with his cigar as usual. He seemed even more distracted than normal, and David wondered if he had been discovered, if the entente was about to get less cordiale. He felt a moment's guilt at his ingratitude. Perhaps what he was doing was a bit underhand, when he thought about it from their point of view. But then again, it was their own faults. If they would just tell him what he wanted to know, sate his unquenchable thirst for knowledge just a little, then he wouldn't need to sneak around behind their backs trying to find out for himself. He didn't want to steal the system for heaven's sake, only find out what made it tick. He was just taking a professional interest, nothing more.

The Admiral ignored the computer, so David relaxed a little. He hadn't been detected.

He was not told every detail of what was going on in 'his' life, but he did get the occasional update to help him pick up the threads when he got back. Calavicci had already told him what the other Beckett had done in his name on that first afternoon – definitely rather him than me, David had thought. Perhaps the Admiral had merely come to give him another progress report.

"Things are starting to move, kid. I guess you could be going home real soon now." Al told him. He refused to give David any information as to the direction in which things were moving. He was more than usually evasive on this point, casting his eyes downwards and clearing his throat nervously.

David didn't like it, and started to say so. The Navy man put on his best poker face then, and became dismissive, trying to sound casual. David wasn't convinced, but it was clear that the man wasn't going to be drawn. Since he was not in a position to do anything about it, he decided not to let it worry him. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

Admiral Calavicci then claimed a pressing engagement elsewhere, and almost bolted for the door. David wondered why he had bothered turning up in the first place. Still, he was grateful for the warning. If it was possible he could be leaving soon, he was not going to waste a moment of whatever time remained. With renewed enthusiasm, he closed the superfluous game of solitaire, restored his program and began tapping keys for all he was worth.

Barely an hour after Al had left David in the Waiting Room, he found himself back in his room. He had just changed his suit for the third time, and was looking round for something else to do, when a klaxon blared. 'Time to mosey on down to the corral' thought Al, trying to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about, that it was just Ziggy giving him his alarm call as instructed.

But it didn't stop.

It was too strident.

It wasn't just an alarm:

It was an ALARM.

Something was drastically wrong.

Al shot out of his room like a bullet from a starting pistol, almost knocking Tina flying. She had been racing to fetch him.

All along the corridors people were bustling hither and thither in a frenzy of activity, shouting incoherently at one another.

"Where's the fire?" cried Al, spinning Tina round to face him; putting out a hand to steady her; stunned by the look on her face.

"What in the name of Sam Hill is going on?" he was not at all sure that he really wanted to know.

Tina was panting, trying to get her breath back. Desperate and yet terrified to tell Al what had happened. Not that she could believe it. She was almost hysterical. Al thought about slapping her back to reality, but decided that it was not appropriate. This wasn't Tina – leggy lovely - whom he'd dated, and bedded on and off for years, having one of here girlish tantrums. The woman facing him now was the other side of Tina - Ms Martinez-O'Farrell, the pulse technician whose knowledge of Ziggy had been second only to Gushie's (apart from Sam of course) until Sammy-Jo Fuller had unexpectedly joined the team. Her technical expertise certainly far surpassed Al's.

He grasped her firmly by the shoulders and stared her straight in the eyes.

"Tell me!" he ordered, and then shouted over his shoulder,

"Someone switch that damned siren off. I can't hear myself think."

Someone hurriedly obeyed.

Al snapped his attention back to Tina, who was drawing in a deep breath.

"It's…it's Ziggy –" she began, eyes darting wildly from side to side like she wanted to escape, run, miles away, be anywhere but here, having to tell Al. Which was true.

"What _about _Ziggy?" asked Al in exasperation.

"SH-he's d-dead."

"WHAT!" whatever Al might have been expecting her to say, this didn't even come close.

"What the hell are you talking about?" his urge to slap her returned, (though he was not an abusive lover by nature) but again he resisted, Naval discipline lending him restraint.

"He.. she.. it's gone completely off line. We can't get a peep out of her. Total systems crash. Dead." She was sobbing now, limp beneath his grasp.

He propelled her down endless corridors, towards the room that housed Ziggy's mainframe. If this was some kind of joke, it was in _very_ poor taste.

The room was dark, and eerie. It had always been – since the momentous day when Ziggy had first been switched on – a place of bright colored lights, and noise, and above all – as its name suggested - Control. Now Gushie and Sammy-Jo were pushing buttons frenetically, while engineers and technicians and electricians were fiddling with power sources and checking fuses and poking around with screwdrivers and doing anything and everything they could think of to regain some measure of control. Nobody knew what on earth they were looking for; they only knew they couldn't find it.

"What happened?" asked Al, incredulously. "How could this be _allowed_ to happen?" he was Project Controller now, in charge and demanding answers. The one he most wanted was 'when am I going to wake up and find this nightmare is over?'

Three or four people started babbling at once, offering excuses, and trying to shift blame. Al silenced them all with a bark.

"_Gushie_?"

If anything, Gushie's mousy brown moustache looked limper than ever. His lab coat was done up on the wrong buttons. Al could never reconcile the image of this pathetic little man with severe halitosis to the role of Chief Programmer, whose working knowledge of Ziggy was legendary. Now, Al dismissed his criticisms of Gushie's personal hygiene. It was his mind he was interested in.

"I – I –I d-don't know, Admiral." Stuttered Gushie, despair in every syllable. "We – we were running options, just as you instructed. Then suddenly Ziggy started side tracking, feeding out garbage. We tried to adjust it, but it was like we weren't in control. The more we tried to correct the glitch, the worse it got. Ziggy was talking gibberish, gabbling something about someone being inside her head and she had to get them out. I know Dr Beckett programmed her with a personality, but I didn't know she was capable of having a nervous breakdown. Cos that's what seemed to happen. Before we knew what was going on Ziggy had shut down all her systems. We can't get anything out of her at all. Not a flicker."

Ziggy was self-energized, they couldn't pull her plug against her will, nor power her up without her consent.

"What Nothing? Zero? Zip? Zilch? Nada? On any level?"

This was so far beyond the realms of possibility for Al that he couldn't grasp the concept. He drew out his COM link, clutching at it as a drowning man clutches at straws. It was silent and unlit, as lifeless as a solar powered calculator during a total eclipse. He pressed each and every button in turn, searching for any glimmer of a reaction. He got neither sound nor light.

"You _must_ be able to get _something_?" he was pleading now, as the implications began to sink in.

Without Ziggy, they couldn't keep tabs on Sam.

Without Ziggy, Al couldn't help and advise him.

Without Ziggy, Sam was Lost.

Irrevocably.

Most immediately, without Ziggy, Al couldn't walk into the Imaging Chamber by Midnight – Sam's time – and be there to watch his friend's back as he snooped round the complex.

Al Calavicci was not a happy man.

"We're working on it, Admiral." Tina assured him. When she called him Admiral he knew things had hit rock bottom. Usually her references to him were much more intimate than that, even in public.

"Work faster, dammit." He snapped, and turned on his heels.

When he reached the door, he froze, and then wheeled about. He looked from Gushie to Tina to Sammy-Jo to the horribly silent Ziggy. He looked again.

"Admiral?" Gushie saw the double take – didn't understand it.

Al's mind was working furiously. He was an ex-Naval Officer, jet-jock, ex-astronaut, man of action. He didn't pretend to be a computer expert. But he'd been around Sam and the others long enough to pick up some of the jargon. Now, two possibilities suggested themselves to him, and he didn't like either one of them. He rubbed his temples, searching for the correct phrases.

"Could it be a – a virus?"

That was it; Ziggy was sick. Just a bit under the weather. A quick dose of whatever computers used for antibiotics and he would be fine. No problem.

"First thing we thought of when he started on the gobbledegook." Said Sammy-Jo, trying not to sound too patronizing.

Al swallowed convulsively. That left the other option. The one he had been most afraid of. 'Please tell me I'm wrong' he prayed silently, as he voiced his suspicion.

"What did you say Ziggy told you?" he asked Gushie again.

"He was babbling; it was utter rubbish." Gushie hadn't seen where this was leading, but he was beginning to even as he spoke.

He was trying to convince himself it couldn't be happening. It was unthinkable.

"Tell me!" snapped Al, aware of the seconds ticking away, seconds which could be crucial for Sam. Painfully aware of Ziggy's last coherent prediction, and the overwhelming odds. Odds that he suspected had just got even worse.

"She said … said that someone was inside her head." Gushie was whiter now than his lab coat, stained with the candy bars that were his staple diet these days.

The truth dawned on them all, and there was not an iota of difference in their expressions as Al, Gushie, Sammy-Jo and Tina stared at each other in horror and disbelief. Al broke the deadlock. It was like a shattering of mirrors.

"I'll KILL him." He snarled, as the others turned their attention back to Ziggy. Now they knew the root of the problem, they could set about finding a cure.

Al stormed back to the Waiting Room, pushing past several project personnel as if they weren't there. He burst through the door, as if he'd used dynamite to open it.

If he'd had any to hand, he probably would have done.

David jumped visibly.

His elation at finally gaining access to the computer called Ziggy had been short lived. The computer had detected the intruder, and when it had failed to lock him out again, it had simply shut itself down. Gone off line. Switched off. It was the most brilliant and complete piece of protection he had ever encountered, but it was bitterly disappointing.

And then all hell had broken loose. Alarms had gone off all over the place: deafening; reproaching. He'd heard all the running and shouting, and knew it was his fault, but he didn't know what to do about it. He was scared. What would they do to him if they found out?

Now a sound like thunder announced he was about to discover what they were going to do to him, and he backed away from the door, certain he was not going to enjoy it.

The Admiral barged in, his face as puce as the suit he was wearing. The eyes were glazed, mad. The fists were clenching and unclenching. The jaw was working as he struggled through rage to find his voice. He closed the gap and David found himself cowering in a corner.

"Do you have any idea what you've done, you blasted moronic HACKER?" he bellowed, grabbing at David's shirt and pulling him forward so that David could smell the tobacco on his breath.

"I'm s-sorry." He whispered. It sounded pathetic, even to him.

"I d-didn't mean to. I didn't know. I only…" he was scared witless. The Admiral, who had always seemed small and rather ridiculous in his jester's outfits, now towered over him menacingly, and David felt the full weight of his wrath descending upon him.

"Don't you realize, whatever happens to Sam, affects _you_ too? You've trapped him, in God knows what danger. You stupid little…"

Words failed him.

Even a colorful Naval vocabulary failed to find an adjective strong enough to adequately describe just how stupid Al thought he was. The Admiral was verging on apoplexy.

"I ought to…" he drew back his arm.

'Here it comes.' Thought David, bracing himself for the blow he knew he deserved, flinching, closing his eyes.

It didn't come.

Instead, Calavicci diverted the blow, and slammed his fist into the wall behind David's head, not caring that he grazed his knuckles.

David dared to open one eye, then the other. The old man was tearing up, still holding David by the shirt, but with a less tense grip.

He looked like he'd totally lost it.

"I can't even hit you, you bastard. Not while I can still see so much of Sam in your eyes. But if anything happens to him, anything, so help me…"

David didn't need it spelling out. He felt a complete and utter heel.

It wasn't meant to be like this. This wasn't what he'd wanted. He'd spoilt everything. And the Admiral had said that Dr Beckett was in danger.

He wished he knew what was going on back in the City of the Angels.

So did Al.

"I'm real sorry." David said again, knowing it was inadequate but needing to say it nonetheless.

"You just better hope we can get Ziggy back boy, before it's too late."

He released his grip, pushing David back against the wall in a dismissive gesture, looking at him like he was sorry he'd sullied his hands by even that contact. David thought he looked easily ten years older than when they'd first met only days ago.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. David felt he had to do something to make amends.

"There must be something I can do to help," he ventured, hesitantly, making a move towards the computer terminal. Admiral Calavicci intercepted him, and yanked the plug out. He disconnected the keyboard and tucked it under his arm.

"Don't you think you've done more than enough already?" he spat, and stormed out.

He went back to Ziggy, but Sammy-Jo and Tina made it quite clear he was just getting in the way.

He returned to the Imaging Chamber, but it might just as well have been a padded cell without Ziggy to activate it.

He tried going back to his room, but it didn't welcome him.

He was out of place wherever he went: A spare part, redundant.

So, he went where no one ever went: The Inner Sanctum.

He let himself into Sam's private quarters with a Security pass key, as if contact with Sam's possessions could somehow bring him contact with the man.

The room had been kept sealed, preserved almost like a shrine, exactly as Dr Beckett had left it on that fateful May 1st. It looked as if its owner had just stepped out for lunch, and would be back at any moment. Al looked around, taking in the familiar details, the family photographs, the books; the essence of Sam Beckett.

Sam was a very private man – Al was one of the few people who had been honored with an invitation to his personal retreat. Al stared at the door now, as if he could will his friend to walk through it, smiling and bubbling with enthusiasm, as he had been the last time they were together in this room. The door remained firmly and stubbornly shut.

Al felt lost and alone and useless and old.

Secure in the knowledge that there was nobody to witness his sentimentality, Al opened a drawer and picked up Sam's favorite sweater – a deep rich green woolen turtle neck, which his mother had knitted for him one Christmas. Feeling its softness and the weight of it in his hands, Al sank onto Sam's bed. His lips quivered.

"Oh, Sam," he breathed, "Please don't do anything hasty. Wait for me, Sam. Don't go without me. Please, Sam."

He shook his head in utter inconsolable despair.


	14. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

At long last Ziggy finally hiccupped, then screamed back into life.

"_Admiral!"_ she shrieked hysterically, her voice at least an octave higher than before she disappeared.

Al started, dropping the sweater and running for the Imaging Chamber in a sprint that could have made Olympic history.

"Gushie! Centre me on Sam: **NOW**!"

Al was beside himself with worry. He wasn't one for what he called "mushy stuff" and he'd have been mortified if he'd known that Sam knew just how much he really cared. But the merging of their brain wave patterns had reinforced the strong empathy that friendship had forged between them. Now, Al's sixth sense told him Sam was in deep trouble.

Little did he suspect just how deep.

Sam blinked groggily as the brightness of Al's door pierced the gloom of his prison. It matched the lights exploding in Sam's brain and he groaned. To his dulled senses the sound seemed muffled and far away. Then he realized why. He had been gagged.

He wanted to tell Al how pleased he was to see him, even if the bright puce suit, black shirt and paisley tie did shriek at his raw nerves, but he could only grunt through the tight cloth which dug painfully into the sides of his mouth. He tried to remove it, and discovered that he was securely bound, hand and foot, in an almost fetal position. Now that Al's door had vanished, it was too dark for his blurred vision to discern exactly where he was, but it was cold, hard, damp and rough and the floor was oddly concave. It was definitely not a Four-Star Hotel that he would recommend to a friend.

"Oh my God, _no!_ Sam!"

Al took in Sam's condition at a glance. A wave of guilt swept over him. He'd had all the warning signs. Ever since this Leap began they had both felt that something was wrong. How could he have let things get this far out of hand? Why hadn't Sam waited until he was there to stand guard for him? He'd homed in on Sam the moment the panic at HQ had died down and the technical crew had got Ziggy back on line again. But the fact remained it had been too late. As he'd feared, he hadn't been there when Sam had obviously needed him. He would have given anything for Sam to be chiding him:

"Where were you? What kept you? Was she worth it?"

Would willingly have doubled all his alimony payments rather than find his friend like this.

"What happened?" his voice was heavy with self-reproach.

Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded at his bonds, then immediately regretted the gesture as the pain shot through his head again. The Look said:  
"You can see what happened – I got caught."

He thought Al sounded strained.

Instinctively, Al had moved forward to untie Sam, and then remembered that he was only a hologram and walked 'through' Sam's legs. Neither of them had ever become completely used to this phenomenon, and preserved the illusion of Al's reality wherever possible. Now, they both seemed more than a little shaken by the experience, far more than they should have been, even given recent events. Al's torso disappeared through the wall, and Sam rolled onto his back. After a moment they realized it was not just emotion – the 'room' was moving.

Al had seen outside. He dived back to Sam, unable to hide the panic on his face.

Sam was in really deep ka-ka.

For a brief moment, a shaft of early-morning sunlight penetrated the upper part of Sam's prison, and then it was blotted out by an avalanche, which threatened to engulf him. He didn't need Al to tell him where he was. Ruggiero's boys had flung Sam into the giant cement mixer, and now the gravel and sand was being poured in, to be tossed and mixed with the cement to provide the foundations of the new building. Sam would be buried alive – assuming he could survive the tumbling and the smothering.

No wonder Bill, or David had disappeared. It was a case of the old-fashioned cement overcoat: Not very original, but no doubt still highly effective.

The momentum was increasing. Sam was stifling under the cascade of cement and water. He was almost grateful for the gag, which prevented him from swallowing the foul mixture – but it also prohibited him from calling for help. Who was he trying to kid? Even if he had been able to yell at the top of his lungs, there was nobody around to hear him. The site was deserted at this time of the morning.

Pitch; roll; yaw (Now where did **that** come from?) Sam was tossed about like a buoy in a hurricane. His back slammed against the side of the bowl. He felt something snap. Three, probably four ribs, he thought clinically, as an intense pain shot through to his chest, catching his breath in his throat – making him bite down hard into the gag. Al saw the pain etched in his face, and cursed, as only a sailor knew how.

The drum rotated on its axis, tilting the mixer to the horizontal.

Bitter tears stung Sam's face; partly in reaction to the sand irritating his eyes and the caustic lime burning his skin, maybe caused by the pain, perhaps due a little to the increasing certainty of his own imminent demise, but more than anything down to an overwhelming sense of failure.

It was not a feeling to which Dr Beckett, scholar of six degrees, seven doctorates, jack-of-all-trades and master of most, was accustomed, and he didn't like it. He had let Bill down; let David down; betrayed Scott and Deke, along with all the other kids who would die or suffer through experimenting with the 'Rapture' that Ruggiero was manufacturing.

He'd failed Al.

He'd failed Everyone.

Yet Sam was never one for self-pity, and he was certainly no defeatist. A sudden iron determination gripped him. He tried to shift his body weight so that the crazy tumbling that buffeted his bruised and battered body around his spinning prison would propel him towards the aperture where the sun flickered in tantalizingly.

"Atta boy, Sam." Al had been momentarily stung into inactivity by the shock of the situation. Then he had begun punching buttons on Ziggy's COM link with all the vigor of a kid playing a pinball machine, as much to feel that he was doing something and to reassure himself that Ziggy was still functioning, as is any vague hope of finding a means of extricating Sam from this life-threatening situation.

The lights danced, illuminating the gloom.

Damn, how he hated being so helpless. Sometimes, it was an advantage that nobody other than Sam could see or hear him (except lunatics, very young children and animals) but this was definitely not one of those times.

"You can do it, pal."

But the ropes bit deep into Sam's wrists and ankles, his back felt as if it was on fire, and his head was pounding. Each revolution of the mixer lifted him up and flipped him over like a pancake, already soaked in maple syrup, bouncing him painfully against its sides.

Sam felt a wave of nausea rise up from the pit of his stomach and surge towards his throat. With a supreme effort of will, he fought it back down again.

There are many unpleasant ways to die, and Sam was currently staring several of them in the face. Somehow, choking to death on his own vomit was the least appealing.

He knew he was in danger of blacking out.

Each time he thought he might be getting closer to escaping, the tumbling would toss him deeper into the mixing bowl.

Al couldn't tell Sam that Ziggy was predicting only a 6 chance that he would get out alive. The odds had seldom been so poor. He swore he was gonna kick David Beckett's butt for this, big time, and just for starters.

He called up his door.

Sam looked at him from out of a grimy, bloodstained face. The Look pleaded, "Don't leave me, Al."

The light from the door reflected in his eyes, a look of sheer paralyzing panic, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

"Hang in there, buddy," commanded Al, "I'll get help."

The Look said "Oh, sure. How?"

Al understood The Look, but didn't have an answer. He stepped through the door and both he and it vanished.

Al materialized again by the fence at the edge of the compound and looked around. It was still early morning, but a few people were on the move. He stepped out into the road, and two cars passed right through him, despite his frantic attempts to flag them down.

Al scanned the horizon in all directions, his heart pounding.

Since the moment he had realized that Ziggy had gone A.W.O.L. he had feared that Sam would not get through this Leap unscathed. Now he dreaded that Sam might not get through it at all. His friend was dying, and he was powerless to prevent it.

He even considered for one fleeting moment whether he should return to the Project and step into the Accelerator as Sam had once done. Then he would be here in the flesh and he could switch that infernal machine off and dial 911 and get Sam out and …

… and what if he Leaped into another time and place altogether, or the process Swiss cheesed his brain like it had Sam's and he forgot why he was there. NO. There had to be another way.

A Hispanic teenager sporting a Walkman trundled down the sidewalk on a skateboard and careered straight through Al, shaking him into action again. He swung round instinctively, yelling:

"Kids today, no respect …"

He broke off the tirade before it had really started. The youth couldn't hear him and he knew it, anymore than he could have seen him to avoid him, but that was not what stopped him. Al slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"That's it, Calavicci, you idiot."

He spun through one hundred and eighty degrees and looked back the way he had come, searching for something he thought he had seen during his initial reconnoiter of the area.

"Kids, yeah. Kids. Kids, loonies and … _animals_!"

The ghostly form broke into a run.

Down the block a young woman in her twenties was jogging. She was tall and slim, with jet-black hair tied back in a topsy-tail, arranged neatly over a fresh white sweatband. As for her figure, in that tight fitting jade green leotard and tights – 'where it was narrow, it was narrow as an arrow, but it was broad where a broad oughta be broad,' to quote from one of those old musicals that Sam was so fond of playing.

Sam. **Sam!**

Al's appreciative wolf-whistle strangled in his throat. And to his eternal credit, he drew his lecherous eyes away from the lovely young woman to focus on her companion. She was slender and elegant too, with shaggy flaxen hair and long muscular legs – all four of them! She was the most beautiful Afghan hound Al had ever seen in his entire life.

Al's whistle turned into a high call and he clapped his hands and bent down.

"Here girl."

The dog pricked up her ears.

He was getting hotter. The sweat poured off Sam and soaked through his tracksuit, making him feel clammy.

As he somersaulted around the machine he found himself thinking crazy thoughts about stories heard on the news.

"Kitten rescued from tumble dryer. Miraculous escape – nine lives, etc. etc."

How many times had Sam Leaped into danger in the many lives he had 'borrowed'? Had he used up **his** nine lives? Was it really going to end here like this?

Despair threatened to consume him again. He wondered where Al was. He felt deserted, abandoned, and more alone than he had ever been before.

Yet still he would not give in.

Flexing cramped muscles as far as the bondage would permit, he tried yet again to guide his random tumbling towards the exit, snorting frantically to clear his nostrils of the clogging muck. He succeeded only in jarring the base of his spine against the side of the mixer and sending shock waves of pain rippling throughout his entire semi-numbed body. The slurry dripped and plopped over and around him – inexorable as the sands in an hourglass measuring out his rapidly dwindling life span.

Once again the brilliance of Al's door blinded Sam. Deep down, he had known all along that his best friend would never turn his back on him at such a desperate time. Even if Al couldn't help, it was good to know he was there, that he wouldn't die alone and anonymous. His eyes said all this to Al more poignantly than any words could ever have done.

Al was smiling, and punching Ziggy again. Hope soared in Sam as overwhelming as the despair had been scant moments earlier. The look in Sam's eyes asked what he had dared not ask before.

"What are the odds?"

"It's gonna be okay, Sam." Enthused Al, "Just bear with me a bit longer, buddy. Help is on the way. Zig says we're up to 39 on getting you out alive."

Thirty nine percent was still much less than even money, but without being told, Sam knew this had to be well up on the original prognosis.

And he'd beaten worse odds before. Another memory came from out of nowhere; how a grey Persian cat called Tiffany had been rescued after an amazing forty-one days trapped by the January '94 quake - surviving without food, against all the odds.

'While there's life, there's hope' thought Sam.

Now, The Look asked, "How did you pull it off, Al?"

"I'll be right back, Sam. I've gotta go see a dog about a man – _you_!"

With that, he vanished again, but Sam no longer felt alone.

"What _is_ it with you this morning, Lucky?" the woman remonstrated with the Afghan, who was pulling her along towards the building site in a state of extreme agitation.

"Can you smell a cat? Leave it, girl, this is no place for us."

But the dog would not be deterred. She was chasing the man in the bright puce suit, who threw his disappearing cigar like it was a stick and called to her enticingly to play.

"We _can't_ go in there, girl," pleaded her mistress, "it's private property, and it's not safe. Please come on, Lucky. I'll be late for my appointment."

Now that they had reached the fence, the man's attitude changed, and the dog sensed that there was more at stake than a wild romp. She started barking insistently, and strained even harder at her leash, dragging her mistress to the gap made in the fence by Sam the night before.

'This isn't such a good idea, Sally,' the woman told herself, noticing the jump leads and the wire cutters. 'There could still be a gang of thieves in there.'

Once again she tried to persuade the dog that they should go on about their own business, but Lucky urged her relentlessly inside.

"All right, girl – you win. But just a quick look round, then we're out of here."

Sally Reynolds had only once before known Lucky to act up like this and now she was beginning to suspect that something was very wrong. For, the last time Lucky had been this keen to have Sally follow her somewhere, she had dragged her mistress out of the house moments before the leaking gas had ignited, blowing everything sky-high. She'd been just a pup then, and that was how she'd come to be christened Lucky.

Certainly, Lucky again seemed to know exactly what she was doing, although she didn't appear to be sniffing out a scent. It was almost as if she were following something she could see. But that was just crazy. The place was apparently deserted, even though some of the automated machinery had already been put in motion.

Sally almost stumbled over a power cable in her attempt to keep up with the dog. She decided it would be safer to slip her lead and watch what she did. The dog sprinted away like a greyhound after a rabbit, and then – what **was** she up to? She was jumping up and pawing at the controls of the giant cement mixer as if trying to switch it off.

For the third time, a barely conscious Sam was startled by the whoosh as Al's door broke into his tomb.

Again, The Look – "I can't hold out much longer, Al. I hope this is good news."

"Can you hear it, Sam?"

Sam strained to listen beyond the hypnotic thrumming of the machine which incarcerated him and the pounding of his heart, loud in his ears. Yes, it was a dog.

"It's up to you now, pal." urged Al, "There's a dame out there with a pooch who's trying to tell her that you're in here, but you've gotta make sure she believes it."

The Look asked "How?"

But he knew he had to try.

His throat was knotted tighter than the gag, but he managed a groan. Not loud enough. As he tumbled, he tried to kick out so that his bound feet knocked on the side of the machine.

Missed.

_No_! He _couldn't_ be this close to rescue and let it slip away.

Summoning the last of his rapidly fading strength, he tried again to cry out. It still didn't seem loud enough to his befuddled ears, but he thought he caught a woman's voice outside …

"Quiet, girl. What was that?"

The hound obediently stopped her barking, though she continued pawing at the controls.

Last chance: _Please_, hear me; help me; save me.

There it was again, thought Sally. A pitiful moaning, indistinct, like something in pain. Could there be some creature trapped inside the huge machine? She had to be sure. Grasping the lever firmly in both hands, she pulled down. Up to 67 chirped Ziggy.

No response.

Again she pulled.

Again; no response.

The sound was less frequent and getting even fainter. What now?

Ziggy wailed alarmingly. Down to 22.

"What's wrong? Why won't it stop?" asked Al, of no one in particular, stabbing at Ziggy's COM link frantically. Ziggy screamed and flashed at him, lighting up like a 4th of July firework display.

"Of course!" Al struck his forehead with his palm again, as he was prone to do when he caught himself overlooking the obvious.

The equipment was on automatic. They had to find the override switch before the manual lever would disengage the machine. It seemed to take forever to locate the switch, get the dog to point it out to her mistress. Then she got the message, flicked the control off and went back to the lever.

"Come _on_," urged Al, "he can't last in there much longer."

This time the lever responded to her urgent tugging. The gargantuan machine slowed down, then tilted downwards so that the aperture aligned with the huge semi-circular piping designed to channel its contents into the deep foundation trench, where it would settle, finding its own level.

Sally gasped in horror as the apparition of a man, barely recognizable as a man, appeared to pour out of the machine along with the part mixed concrete, almost in slow motion. He was gagged and bound hand and foot, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey – oven ready. He was grey as a statue and almost as solid. Suddenly, Lucky anticipated Al's next directive and raced around, beneath the slide, bounding up in one almighty leap to knock the end of the chute sideways with her powerful front paws, diverting man and mud bath away from the ready dug grave and onto the higher ground. Sally saw what Lucky was trying to do and sprung forwards to intercept the bundle, half catching him as he slid off the edge and struck the ground with a sickening thud. She cradled his head in her lap, oblivious to the mess which the cement was making of her expensive designer outfit.

Sally fumbled with the gag around his mouth.

He didn't seem to be breathing.

After three broken nails, she finally loosened the knot at the back of his head, and removed the filthy rag from between his teeth.

Long moments later, the grey man's chest heaved, and he coughed feebly.

He was alive, although his face was contorted with pain.

Lucky nudged her arm.

"Good girl, Lucky. Oh, **good girl!**"

Gripped lightly between the animal's teeth was a hosepipe, trickling cool clear water. Sally used it to clean the grey man's face, bathing his eyes and nostrils, making him more human again.

He tried to thank her, but he was far too weak, his breath coming in snatches.

"Hush, don't try to talk." She placed two fingertips gently on his cracked lips.

"It's okay." She said soothingly, as she struggled with the slimy bonds round his hands and feet. She hosed them down, the better to get to grips with them.

The nylon cord was about half an inch in diameter. It was looped in a figure eight about his wrists, then drawn taut down between his knees, connecting to his ankles, where another figure eight held him immobile. It was so tight it had rubbed his skin raw. She clawed at the ropes until the knots gave way, heedless of the fact that all her beautifully manicured nails were now ruined.

"You're safe now." She promised him, "Lie still while I call for help."

As she got to her feet, easing his head from off her lap, she was gentleness itself. Still it felt to Sam that Madame La Guillotine was trying to sever his head from his shoulders.

He couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. Right now, he was more than content to stay where he was, concentrating on getting clean fresh air into his beleaguered lungs.

Sally was not even remotely surprised when Lucky led her straight to the nearest phone.

"Sam?" Al bent over Sam's crumpled form; his craggy face a mixture of relief and concern.

His circulation restored, the blood rushed back into Sam's cramped extremities, and every fiber of his being shrieked out in unremitting agony, yet he was unable to utter a sound.

The Look said Everything.

Al fretted.

Ziggy twinkled.

Then Sam's eyelids flickered and closed, and his body went limp, as blessed oblivion overtook him and he passed out.


	15. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

**Monday 7th August**

Sean was still asleep, but Bill and Caitlin had got up early. They hadn't touched breakfast. Neither had slept well. They had tossed and turned, their minds troubled by waking nightmares – imagining David languishing in a police cell, trying to explain his actions, picturing all sorts of problems.

Fortunately for them, not even their _worst_ fears came close to the horror of reality.

Despite David's assurances not to worry, they couldn't relax until he'd phoned to say it was all over. He had promised to let them know first thing in the morning, refusing against all protests from Cat to call during the night. The way he'd fussed over her and the unborn child, anyone would have thought that _he_ was the doctor, and not his cousin, she had observed to Bill after their newfound friend had gone. Now, they sat uncomfortably on the edge of their comfortable couch, hands firmly clasped together, staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

"It's still quite early; he's probably just slept in." Bill tried to sound reassuring, but Cat knew that deep down her husband was just as concerned as she was herself.

They felt responsible. If Bill hadn't poured out his heart to David after lunch, the younger man would never have offered to go snooping around. And if Bill's suspicions were anywhere near the truth, as David had believed, then he could be risking far more than his job.

"I should have gone with him, Cat." Bill said, not for the first time.

"We've been over it, Bill," countered his wife, looking tired and drawn.

"You offered; he wouldn't hear of it, not under _any_ circumstances. He went as far as making you promise not to go anywhere near the place. He was so insistent, he scared me."

"Yeah, it was like he _knew_ something bad was gonna happen."

Bill bit back the words as soon as they were out, but Caitlin had already come to this conclusion anyway.

"Oh, Bill, what can we do?"

She had never met David Beckett before yesterday, but she had taken to him at once. Everything about him confirmed the image that Frank had painted at length over coffee Saturday morning.

How long ago that seemed now.

She hoped it would be the start of a lasting friendship. David seemed lonesome somehow. There was an air of the 'little boy lost' about him. He'd obviously been a bachelor too long, judging by the relish with which he'd devoured her simple home cooked meal. And his willingness, not only to accept Bill's story, but also to take it all upon himself, had moved her deeply. He may have joked about Quixotic quests, and made light of the whole thing, yet beneath the surface he clearly took the matter seriously and was under no illusions as to what he was getting himself into. But still he had gone ahead, to protect her Bill, who was not even a close friend, but little more than a work colleague. He seemed to know just how scared she was of losing Bill, and his eyes had shone with the promise of a happy ending.

She felt another pang of guilt. What if _their_ happy ending had been bought at the expense of this gentle young man's life? She couldn't bear it. She pulled her hand away from Bill's and stood up, pacing the floor restlessly, rubbing the small of her back. She could feel the baby moving; it seemed as agitated as she was. Bill watched her apprehensively. He was growing increasingly afraid that the tension would bring on labor. He swallowed hard to banish the lump that had risen in his throat.

Why didn't the darned phone ring? Where was David? What was going on?

Finally, in an attempt to distract them both from their worries, Bill rose and crossed the room to switch on the television. Then he took the remote control and flicked idly through the channels. He had just passed NBC and was hovering on CMT, hoping to hear something soothing, when Caitlin stared at the screen and then wheeled around to face him, gesticulating wildly.

"Turn it back, Bill, quick!"

"Back?" he queried, not comprehending.

She snatched the control and returned to NBC. It was an outside broadcast, the anchorman handing over to his colleague on the spot, who was interviewing a classy lady in what was once a green leotard, but was now a dirty grey. They were making a fuss of an Afghan hound. But it was the location that had caught Caitlin's eye.

"L-look," she stuttered, pointing at the screen, "its …"

But Bill could see where it was.

"Sshh." He ordered, and took back the remote control, pounding on the volume switch in a gesture that would have reminded Sam of Al's handling of the COM link, if only he could have been there to witness it.

"Tell us again _exactly_ what happened, Miss Reynolds, for the benefit of those viewers who've just tuned in. This really is astonishing…" he gushed.

The woman on the screen the proceeded to ramble about how she always went jogging in the early morning when it was quiet, taking her dog, Lucky. She recounted the story of how the animal had earned her name. She babbled enthusiastically.

Bill snapped at the set – "Get to the point, woman. What is it all about?" Had the dog saved her from an intended rapist? A mugger?

He and Cat were sitting side by side again, even closer to the edge of their seats. They searched the background of the scene on TV, hoping to see a glimpse of David on the building site.

"…I thought she was chasing a cat…" the woman was still rambling, but the reporter and the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk seemed to be hanging on her every word. It had to be leading somewhere.

Bill could feel Cat's hand trembling as they watched, a growing sense of foreboding creeping over them both. They perched, glued to the screen, hardly daring to breathe, certain that they were going to hear something dreadful, and that it was all their fault.

Finally, the woman got beyond the Overture and into Act One. She told how her amazing dog had sensed something wrong and had shown her where a man was trapped, bound and gagged, inside the giant cement mixer. She described how the intelligent creature had pointed out the switch to turn the machine off. She explained how the dog had nudged aside the chute to prevent the injured man from plummeting into the foundations. She marveled at how her pet had even found water to clean him up and a phone to summon the paramedics.

The Donahues listened with mounting terror as she related her dreadful tale, knowing there was only one person she could be talking about. When she described the state of the man she had rescued, and how she had thought at first that he was dead, Cat let out a cry and clutched at Bill's hand so tight that she dug her nails into his palm. He put his arm around her shoulder, but they were powerless to do more than stare, dumb-struck, at the screen, listening as the woman – Miss Reynolds – spun her story out to the bitter end.

Then it was over.

Mr. Ruggiero was unfortunately unavailable for comment. Everyone at the site was patting the dog and expressing astonishment. The roving reporter was trying to get Miss Reynolds' telephone number.

Bill and Caitlin looked at each other, wide eyed, in abject horror. Cat was crying.

"Oh, Bill, what have we _done_?" her lip quivered.

William Donahue swallowed hard again, fighting against his own sense of guilt and concern in an effort to comfort his wife. They were both distraught, but he had to think of the baby as well. He couldn't let Cat get hysterical. After two miscarriages and a stillbirth over the past five years, this baby was to be the answer to all their prayers. He couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to it now.

"It'll be okay." He said, with more conviction than he felt.

"David's alive. I'm sure he's gonna be just fine."

'Please, God.' He added, silently.

They both moved, as if one, for the telephone.

"How do we find out which hospital he's in?" asked Cat, "I have to see him for myself, to be sure."

The tears were streaking down her cheeks, falling unabated on the yoke of her pastel blue dress. She began to tremble violently as a thought struck her.

"Dear God, Bill. That could've been _you!_"

She collapsed back onto the couch, clutching her swollen stomach. Her breathing was erratic. She was having palpitations. Then she cried out as a strong contraction gripped her with a wave of pain.

And Bill's world went to pieces.

As he grabbed for the phone, he felt a shaking, which at first he put down to his knees, the shock, the worry. Then he realized – it was another quake. Their building had been on the very edge of the big quake last year, and they'd suffered only minor damage. This time it was far more local and the ground started to vibrate beneath him.

Ornaments jingled and shuffled across shelves, to slide gracefully to the floor. Framed photographs dive-bombed from the walls, with a splintering of wood. Windows rattled, louder and louder.

There was an ominous rumbling. The television, still switched on but broadcasting unnoticed now in the corner of the room, leant at an impossible angle for a moment, before crashing into a hundred fragments on the floor. Glass shattered. Cupboard doors burst open and provisions scattered all over the floor.

Bill heard a whimper from the small bedroom and looked from Cat to the door. Sean!

He must have been woken by the tremors – he must be scared poor little chap. Bill had the receiver in his hand, but he hesitated. What should he do first? Get Sean? Call an ambulance for Cat? Help Cat? Try to get them to safety? Agonizing moments slipped by as he weighed the choices, torn apart by indecision.

Then he punched up 911, at the same time calling out to Sean to come out of the bedroom and join him. He knew his son would be even more frightened when he saw his Mom in this state, but he'd just have to be a brave little man. He was nearly seven now, and Daddy needed him to be strong.

He was proud of how well Sean did cope, helping to make Mommy more comfortable, then going to crouch down in the door frame like he'd been taught at school, while Daddy finished on the phone. Bill could see him biting back the tears, and could hardly contain his own.

'Monday mornings,' he thought, 'Who'd have 'em?'

The power spat, buzzed, and then went out.


	16. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

When he came-to, late that afternoon, Sam found himself in a mercifully darkened hospital room. Thick, heavy drapes across the window prevented any trace of daylight from assaulting his eyes.

He had **THE WORST** headache he could ever remember. Not that that was saying much – Leaping had Swiss-cheesed his memory to the extent that there were huge gaps in his past, a monumental headache could well have been one of them. He would be glad when he could forget this one. He guessed he'd been heavily sedated when they'd admitted him. He certainly had no recollection of the journey, which was probably just as well.

"Welcome back, Sam. How do you feel?" Al was 'sitting' on the edge of the bed, for once fairly soberly dressed, as if in deference to Sam's delicate condition. He was trying to appear as if he'd only just arrived.

As for Sam, all the sludge had been cleaned off, but his complexion still had a grey pallor about it. To his tired eyes, it looked as if two Als floated and danced before him. He blinked hard, screwing up his eyes until they merged back into one, but that one remained blurred round the edges.

Al hoped that he would retort with the old cliché – "Oh, you know, as well as can be expected." That his friend had bounced back, as he always did.

"Ooh, b-boy," Sam groaned, "I…ache…all…over." Each word was punctuated by a labored breath. "Isn't…it…won-der-ful!"

His mouth was drier than a desert sand-dune in the midday sun, his lips were cracked, his tongue felt thick and furry. He seemed unable to produce any saliva. Talking was an effort. So was breathing for that matter.

Al stood up and stared at Sam in amazement. The agonized expression reflected in his friend's misty eyes, which Sam could not disguise before Al's experienced gaze, led him to believe that it was more like sheer unadulterated Hell. Sam was delirious. He had suffered too much; the ordeal had finally been too great; his friend had lost it. Al tapped the side of his forehead to indicate his fear, looking questioningly at Sam:

"Have you finally Leaped clear out of your mind?"

"It… m-means… I'm… still… alive; Al" clarified Sam. It was against all expectation and he was filled with profound gratitude.

"-leluia" he finished, for the benefit of the other person in the room, whom Sam suddenly became aware of for the first time. He had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner, but on hearing Sam talking, apparently to himself, he jumped up and opened the door, calling for the doctor. He wore a police sergeant's uniform.

An elderly doctor and a young nurse rushed into the room. Al couldn't hide his pleasure that it was not the other way around.

"She can take _my_ pulse any day, you lucky dog," he commented, predictably, noting the trim figure, slender ankles, bosom stretching the starched uniform just enough to make the sap rise.

Sam took in the ice blue eyes, brimming with compassion, the rich brown hair trimmed short in a neat practical bob, the perfect white teeth. He had to admit she was lovely. The doctor picked up "John Doe's" notes from the foot of the bed, while the nurse elevated the head end.

Sam wished she hadn't, it made him feel dizzy and faintly nauseous. He let out an involuntary moan.

"Take it easy, young man. I strongly advise you to refrain from moving just yet awhile." Instructed the doctor, with a paternal smile. The accent was British, almost aristocratic. He had a round face, rosy cheeks, and a bushy moustache. He was sixtyish. Sam reckoned he would be busy in the children's ward come December 24th; he was a natural for playing Santa.

Sam warmed to him at once. It was good advice. Sam hadn't intended trying to move. Staying awake was enough of a chore to be getting on with.

"Nurse Woods, 75mg pethidine, please - this should help to make you feel more comfortable, son." The doctor seemed genuinely concerned for Sam's suffering.

The nurse put a pill on Sam's tongue, and supported his head while she held a cup to his lips. The water was every bit as welcome as the pain relief, and he smiled his thanks.

"You are very lucky to be alive." The doctor was saying, adding a record of the medication to Sam's notes. Then the doctor moved around the bed to examine his patient. He noted pulse and blood pressure. He checked the I.V. and then he took a thin pencil torch from the top pocket of his white coat. This he shone into Sam's eyes, moving it to left and right, testing the reaction of the pupils. To Sam, it felt like the burning, cutting beam of a laser, and he slammed down his eyelids in defense.

"Sorry about that, dear boy." The doctor did not prolong the torture, for which Sam was immensely grateful.

"It probably doesn't feel like it right now, but you really got off remarkably lightly in the circumstances." Continued the medic. "You have a severe concussion, a nasty whiplash injury to your neck and four fractured ribs. Aside from that, it's mostly a case of extensive deep contusions and a few abrasions. There is some tissue damage, but miraculously no vital organs were affected. Very painful, admittedly, but - barring complications - nothing irreparable. (In these litigious days, there was always that get out clause.) How you escaped without major internal injuries is quite beyond me. You must have had a guardian angel sitting on your shoulder."

'One, or maybe even two.' thought Sam, winking at Al, who cast an upward glance as if to say - "I'm not taking all the credit."

Despite the pain, which permeated every inch of his body, Sam had to agree with the doctor's assessment. Given recent events, he might have expected any number of injuries such as a punctured lung, damaged kidneys, even a ruptured spleen. He had no beef with the way things stood, considering the possible alternatives.

The doctor had been concluding his examination and updating the case notes. He turned to look straight at Sam.

"Now comes the vital question, and the one we'll all be pleased to hear an answer to eh, officer?"

The policeman had his notebook out. He was keeping out of the way, but taking a keen interest in the proceedings. He nodded vigorously in response to the doctor's query.

"Can you tell us your name, young man? Do you remember who you are?"

It was a question to which Sam could frequently respond in the negative – every time he Leaped, for instance – but this time he knew both who he was, and who he was meant to be.

"My name… is Beckett; David… Beckett." He replied slowly, his voice strained, his breath rasping.

"Splendid." The doctor beamed, "That's an excellent sign. Concussion can often cause amnesia, you know. You are also likely to feel irritable and depressed for a few days. Don't worry, it's perfectly normal in these cases, it will soon pass. And we're all very thick-skinned here, aren't we, Nurse?"

Again the paternal smile. His tone was not at all patronizing.

"No worries; plenty of rest and a little TLC and we'll have him raring to go in no time, won't we, Dr Daniels?" she replied, flashing Sam a lovely smile, which made Al almost choke on his cigar.

"Move over, pal. I could use a dose of that. Va Va Voom." He chortled, making as if to climb into the bed next to Sam. His friend shot him the standard 'Stop thinking with your hormones' look.

"Does that mean I can interview him now?" asked the uniform.

"I don't know about that." Dr Daniels pushed his snow-white hair back from his forehead, "Mr. Beckett has been through a terrible ordeal. We shouldn't underestimate the element of shock to his system, or the degree of pain he is suffering at this stage. He really needs total rest and quiet and time to get his strength back."

That sounded very tempting to Sam, who appreciated the doctor's perspicacity, but he seldom allowed himself the luxury of taking the easy way out. His own personal needs and desires usually came well down on his list of priorities. He still had a job to do.

"It's… all… right," he croaked, "I _want _to m-make a statement."

"I _really_ wouldn't recommend it in your present condition, young man." cautioned the doctor, "Your body has a lot of healing to do."

"**Please**." snapped Sam, sounding harsher than he'd intended. If Ruggiero got wind of the fact that he was still alive, he might have a chance to clear out his operation and re-locate somewhere else. Cover his tracks. Then it would all have been for nothing. He couldn't bear that.

"It's imp-portant." He explained, more tactfully.

"Very well," the doctor conceded, not wanting his patient to become more agitated over the issue, which was obviously urgent in the young man's eyes. "It's your decision, Mr. Beckett. Just go easy on him, officer. Try not to tire him too much, and be sure to stop if he becomes at all distressed. I'll be back later to check up on you."

The old physician's bedside manner was as warm and sensitive as Dr Beckett's own. Al was relieved that his friend was in such good hands. Doctor Daniels made another note on the medical records, then made his excuses and hurried out as his bleeper announced that his presence was requested urgently elsewhere.

"Go for it, Sam." Al told him, nodding his approval. "Sally Reynolds has been bragging to NBC about how smart her hound is. (She is paying for this private room and all your medical bills, by the way.) Ziggy says Ruggiero's getting nervous. He knows you are alive, but not where you are. Not yet. We've got to stay one jump ahead. If the cops don't get on to them in the next few hours, they'll be gone."

'Sometimes, just once or twice, it might be nice to be wrong.' thought Sam wearily, as Al departed, presumably to check on the state of play from the other end.

Sam asked Nurse Woods if he could be allowed some more water. He tried to lift his arm to reach for the vessel she filled for him. It ascended with all the grace and ease of a lead balloon and Sam was ashamed to see his hand was shaking. His angel of mercy helped him to drink without soaking himself, smiling sympathetically. He had such a raging thirst that he was tempted to drink the whole glass at one gulp, but he knew that if he rushed it he was unlikely to keep it down. And swallowing was hard work too. Sam forced himself to ration his intake to sips. When he'd had enough to lubricate his throat, the nurse set down the glass on the locker by the bed, and bustled out.

Stoically, Sam proceeded to tell the sergeant, who according to the badge on his breast pocket was called Maxwell, everything 'David' had discovered about the drugs factory, and Ruggiero's nefarious activities, and how the boys had tried to silence him when he'd been caught. His breathing, instinctively shallow and rapid to prevent excessive strain on the intercostal muscles, forced him to pause frequently in the telling of his tale. The Sergeant listened patiently, prompting him with questions from time to time, making copious notes, helping him to water when he dissolved into fits of coughing and wheezing. He kept his promise not to push the poor young man too hard, and offered on more than one occasion to postpone the rest of the interview. Mr. Beckett's determination to finish his statement amazed and impressed him, he was sure that if their roles were reversed, _he_ would not have had the courage or fortitude to keep going in the face of such obvious suffering.

"Well, that's quite a story, Mr. Beckett." Officer Maxwell observed when Sam finally finished his saga. "Don't you worry none. I'll get right on to Narcotics. With your affidavit here, they'll have more than enough to bust this operation wide open. It's a shame you destroyed some of the evidence; though as a parent, I can understand why you did. Even so, I reckon they'll nail those SOB's for sure."

He looked at his witness, sympathetically. The young man was fighting for breath, his eyes screwed up in pain. Now that his narrative was done, he was making no attempt to engage in further conversation. He looked ghastly. "You'd best get some rest now, you look done in." he was already reaching for his radio with one hand, while the other closed Sam's door softly behind him, so the unfortunate victim could sleep in peace. He strode purposefully down the corridor.

Sam sighed and settled back into the pillows. He was exhausted, but he suspected that now his part was over and he'd be Leaping into somebody else's life at any moment, especially when he saw Al returning.

"Time to go, Al?" he asked, waiting for the familiar tingle, the blue haze, which would wipe his slate clean again, wring him dry like a sponge ready to soak up whatever the next situation threw at him. He pondered anew the complexities of the Leaping process, and its effects both on himself and on his hosts. The link between them varied unpredictably from Leap to Leap.

Sometimes, he absorbed large parts of their identities, physical and/or mental. He could remember the pains that had gripped his chest when a lawyer he'd Leaped into suffered a seizure in the Waiting Room. How he'd had to take Larry Stanton's medication to prevent his own heart from failing. He remembered the indescribable agonies of labor when he'd become a pregnant teenager. His natural admiration of Mothers had deepened still further after that experience. He remembered how, for a while, he had stammered like his host Will Kidman. Most frightening of all, he recalled how the personality of one man had threatened to subjugate his own totally, almost resulting in his becoming an assassin.

Yet on other Leaps, the merging was far more tenuous, and he felt little influence from the people he'd been impersonating. On occasions this made things difficult – no woman had yet helped him to feel comfortable in high heels, for instance. He marveled at their ability to walk unselfconsciously in the damned things. At other times, it was a positive advantage, like when he'd had to 'stand up for himself' during a Leap into a Vet who'd lost both his legs in 'Nam.

He trusted that Whoever or Whatever controlled his Leaps had good reason for the way things worked.

He certainly didn't envy David Beckett right now. When he Leaped out, the healing properties of the blue haze would cause all trace of his injuries to vanish. But David, on repossessing his own life, could find himself in considerable discomfort, to put it mildly. What if he absorbed all the pain that Sam cast off, every last bruise, just as if it had been his all along? That was what Sam called a _real_ shock to the system.

There would be no way for Dr Beeks and the others to prepare him for how much it was going to hurt.

At least the concussion would cover his confusion for a while. Nevertheless, it was a cruel and sadistic fate to inflict upon anybody, and the last thing Sam would have wanted. Sam felt the weight of responsibility and wished there was some way he could express his regrets, his apologies, to the body in question. Al, of course, would have said it served the kid right for the part he'd played in creating the debacle, but then Sam knew nothing about that.

Thinking of David trading places with him brought Sam back to the moment and he realized that Al hadn't answered his question, and he was still there. No tingle; no haze; no Quantum Leap. He looked at Al.

Al looked worried. That in turn worried Sam. He fingered the cervical collar supporting his aching neck and wondered how much more he could be expected to cope with. He **wasn't** Superman. He had his limits, and he felt that he had already been pushed well beyond them. Dammit, he was **tired**. He wanted to go Home.

Al was fiddling with Ziggy, avoiding eye contact. Sam knew the signs, and the longer it took Al to get to the point, the worse things usually were. Al was stalling now. He had something to tell Sam, which he knew his friend wouldn't want to hear, and he couldn't find the words.

"Out with it, Al." Muttered Sam, "Why… haven't I… Leaped?"

"Oh, that," sighed Al, glad to be able to come at things from a different angle. That wasn't the problem, at least not the immediate one. "You have to stay and testify. David can't stand up in court and swear to what he's seen, cos he didn't. Ziggy says without your evidence, Ruggiero will bribe the jury and they'll all get off scot-free. **If **it gets to Court."

'Now we come to it.' thought Sam. Why wouldn't it get to court? Even as they spoke, LAPD's finest were on their way to arrest the whole gang, weren't they?

Al looked uncomfortable again. He cleared his throat.

"Thing is, Sam, Ziggy says that there is a 96 probability that the terrible twins are on their way up here right now to finish what they started."

There, it was out.

Al turned away.

He knew the look that would be in Sam's eyes now, and he couldn't offer him any comfort. Sam was in no condition to tackle them again.

It wasn't fair. In fact, it was the pits.

Sam reached out an aching arm for the bell to call for help, but Al had yet more bad news.

"There's a panic on, Sam. While you were out of it, another earthquake hit: a big one – 8.2. Lots of casualties, some still coming in. The medics will all be too busy to come."

Sam gripped the folds of his sheet with both hands, twisting them until his knuckles turned white.

"You didn't… remind me… there… was going… to be… another quake." He accused.

"Ziggy didn't think it was relevant. We were sure you'd be long gone by now."

'Don't I wish!' thought Sam.

Through the open window and closed curtains, the faint strains of a radio had been drifting, hitherto unnoticed. Now, suddenly, the owner had turned the volume up, and both men became aware of the tune that had begun to play, and they found themselves listening closely to Mariah Carey's dulcet tones, mesmerized by her lyrics.

Al looked at Sam.

Sam looked at Al:

"…_Then a Hero comes along,_

_With the strength to carry on,_

_And you cast your fears aside,_

_And you know you can survive._

_So when you feel like hope is gone,_

_Look inside you and be strong,_

_And you'll finally see the truth –_

_That a Hero lies in you."_

Al's jaw dropped. Sam let out a hollow laugh, that morphed into a cough.

"Do you think… Someone… is trying to… tell me something?" he inquired.

"It certainly sounds as if it was written for you." Al murmured.

For once, he wasn't teasing.

"_It's a long road, and you face the world alone,_

_No-one reaches out a hand for you to hold…"_

Al was stung.

He superimposed a ghostly hand on Sam's shoulder, bitterly aware that his closest friend could not feel it there. Sam appreciated the gesture none-the-less, and drew strength from it.

He had never thought of himself as a hero, not by any standards. It was not a qualification he had ever aspired to. He'd had heroism thrust upon him. Sam didn't possess the typical Leo trait of an exaggerated ego. He looked embarrassed. There was no need to tell Al just how scared he'd felt during the course of this Leap. Yet he knew how to take a hint. Besides, like Arthur Dent, he had no wish to die when he had such a headache, lest it spoil his enjoyment of Heaven. Boy, he really _did_ read too much Science Fiction!

With a look of resignation, Sam gradually levered himself, inch by pain-wracked inch, into a sitting position. He threw aside the sheet. Then he swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed. He paused, while the room stopped spinning, putting a hand to his head as if to reassure himself that it wasn't about to fall off.

The pain receptors in his brain were switched to overload.

Al was shocked.

"Sam, what do you think you're doing? What's the big idea?"

"The… idea… is, when they… come… in here… to kill me, I'd rather… be somewhere… else." Sam panted.

He lowered his feet gingerly to the floor and tentatively put his weight on them. His legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled sideways, clutching at the I.V. stand for support.

"This is crazy, Sam." Protested Al, instinctively moving forward to catch him, grabbing at thin air. "You can't…"

It was taking every ounce of Sam's concentration to coax his recalcitrant body into responding to his will. He didn't waste any of his already depleted energy on a reply. The Look said it for him:

"Do I have a choice?"

He clambered back into a more or less upright position. He looked around for a locker to retrieve some clothes. Hospital gowns were not exactly conducive to his natural sense of modesty. Then he remembered that all David's clothes had been ruined. They'd probably been cut off him. He couldn't afford the time to worry about it, there were worse things threatening him than a charge of indecent exposure.

Clutching the metal-framed foot of the bed, Sam fought to control his breathing – he was dangerously close to hyperventilating – steeling himself for whatever lay ahead. His vision was still blurred. He tried to force his eyes to focus. The effort made his head throb abominably, right through to his gritted teeth.

Al wished wholeheartedly that he could lend Sam more than just moral support. He decided there was something he could usefully do.

"I'll go see where they are." He told Sam, who managed a feeble half-smile in acknowledgement.

It was enough.

Al made his exit through the closed door. It was as much concession to convention as he could manage.

He was back before Sam had dragged his weary carcass even halfway across the room, using the drip-stand like a crutch. This was just as well, considering what he had to report.

"Not this way, Sam." Al stood by the closed door, arms out straight from his sides, palms flat, as if he could have prevented it from opening. A body couldn't help reacting as if a body was really there. It had oft-times been a source of amusement to Sam, but he was not in a jovial mood now.

"They're already in the corridor and heading this way." Added Al. Sam cast an eye around the room, as if to ask, "Which other way is there?"

Al was anticipating him.

"Into the bathroom, Sam. There's no one else in the corridor, so I don't think you'll be heard if you call for help." He knew Sam was not yet back in full voice.

Sam changed direction, urging stiff muscles into compliance.

"Wait, wait." Al stuck his holographic head out to see how long they had.

"Quick, Sam, the pillows. Put a body in the bed." He gestured toward it with his unlit cigar.

Sam followed his train of thought. Anything that could buy him time increased the odds of reinforcements turning up.

Moving as fast as he could, which still seemed excessively slow to them both, Sam made his way back to the bed, wishing he could collapse back into it and rest. Each shuffling step sent white hot pain burning deep through his sciatic nerves, penetrating right into his hip bones. The I.V. hindered him now, and he pulled it out, wincing. He arranged the sheet over spread out pillows to approximate a sleeping form. A trick played by many a teenager, sneaking out when they'd been grounded; even by young Ensigns confined to quarters, but with a hot date. It was a first for Sam, though. He couldn't imagine deceiving his folks that way. The subdued lighting in the room aided him in his ruse, as did the drip line, which he tucked under the sheet.

Pulse pounding in his temples; Sam launched himself once again across the room, heading for the bathroom. He was barely aware now of how badly he was hurting, only of the desperate need to get out of sight before the brothers found him.

He only just made it, pulling closed the door of the bathroom in the same instant that the door from the corridor creaked open.

Sam daren't think beyond the moment, relying on Al to keep him informed on their movements and so give him the edge.

Not for the first time, Al was his Ace in the hole.

He was giving Sam a running commentary now through the door, against which Sam was leaning heavily for support, holding the handle firmly so it couldn't turn without his knowledge. He was making a conscious effort to slow his thudding heart and quieten his gasping breaths, both of which seemed abnormally loud in the stillness. Yet he knew that the adrenalin coursing through his bloodstream was a life-saving biological response, preparing his tenderized body for fight or flight - bred in by generations of evolution and left over from the days of Man the Hunter.

Only now _he_ was the Hunted.

"Here they come, Sam." warned Al. The thugs had discovered his substitution and calculated that he couldn't have got far. The bathroom was the next logical place to look. Sam stiffened in readiness.

"Uh-oh. Guido's pulled out a stiletto, Sam. Be very careful."

Al's voice was strained, a pitch higher than normal. For once, he didn't want to know what odds Ziggy was placing. The hand-link languished unheeded in his hand as he gave his undivided attention to every movement the intruders made.

"Get ready, Sam, but not yet." Al coached, "When I give the word, fling the door open as hard as you can."

Sam didn't answer; too many people were listening.

Al knew he'd heard.

If Sam was going to stand a snowball's chance in Hell of getting out of this one, his timing had to be spot on. A few seconds more. Marco was reaching for the door handle. Just a shade closer; that's it.

"NOW!" yelled Al.

Sam jerked on the handle and leant on the door, slamming it into the room with all the force he could muster. It caught Marco full on, and sent him reeling, straight into Guido, who had no time to turn aside. The glinting blade held poised in his hand plunged deep into his brother's chest. A look of pained surprised flashed across Marco's face. He slumped to the floor, clutching at his brother, who stared at him incredulously, watching the dark stain spreading over Marco's expensive silk shirt.

While they were thus distracted, Al urged Sam past them and out into the corridor. Summoning up reserves of strength he never dreamt he still possessed, Sam was half staggering, half running now, although he had no clear destination in mind. Desperate as he was, he wouldn't seek refuge in the private rooms along the corridor, for fear that other patients, innocent bystanders, be put in danger – caught in the crossfire, as it were.

He didn't slow down to look back over his shoulder, even if the collar would have let him. He knew Al was fulfilling his role of Observer in the truest sense. Sure enough, Al was beside him now, appearing to glide backwards, keeping level.

"Marco's dead, Sam. But Guido's on the move again, and he's real steamed. Watch yourself."

Sam found himself unable to feel any guilt or sorrow at Marco's demise. Nobody's perfect, and the one selfish bone in his aching body felt nothing but profound relief that his peril had been halved.

Sam knew that in his present condition he couldn't hope to outpace his pursuer. He began casting around for a place to hide or a means to defend himself. As Guido closed in on him, an opportunity presented itself. A trolley laden with medication and equipment had been left in the corridor outside a door bearing the instruction 'Nil by Mouth'. Perhaps he could push it at Guido, slow him down, and give Sam time to plan his next move. Sam slowed his retreat and went round behind the trolley, grabbing hold firmly ready to propel it back down the corridor. It meant allowing Guido to gain on him still further, to get him in range. Sam hadn't the strength to send it far. But it was still his best, maybe his only hope.

Sam leant heavily on the handle of the trolley, trying to get his balance. It wouldn't help him at all if he were to fall flat on his face the moment he let go. He was far from steady on his feet. Guido saw what Sam was planning and changed his approach, laughing at his prey's pathetic attempt at defense. Sam followed the blurred figure, calculating the new angle of trajectory, anticipating him. Suddenly, he launched the trolley to intercept his assailant. Guido didn't sidestep quite fast enough, and the trolley caught him a glancing blow on the hip, before it toppled over with a resounding crash. The big man swore, and slowed a little, but not enough. Sam staggered away as Guido limped onward, his face like thunder.

Both Sam and Al were relieved to see that he was not carrying the knife, which he hadn't been able to bring himself to remove from his brother's lifeless form. He was still a dangerous adversary though; they had no illusions about that.

Sam was backing away now, desperately hoping that someone, anyone, would come to his assistance.

It was a nightmare scene from a horror movie. Enter Freddie Krueger.

Sam wished he could wake up.

Al offered him words of encouragement and support, interspersed with idle threats of retaliation aimed at Guido.

Guido was stalking Sam relentlessly, circling round, planning his attack, and shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. He could see the other man swaying, knew he could press home his advantage.

"I'ma gonna enjoy killing you, Beckett." He snarled, as he began herding Sam, backing him into a corner.

Sam didn't doubt it.

"But first, who hava you beena talking to?"

"Do you… really… expect me…to tell you that?" Sam was watching his eyes; looking for any hints as to which way the ogre would move; stalling for time; searching for an opening of his own. His reactions were nowhere near as sharp as he would have wished.

Guido reached into his jacket pocket and removed a hypodermic syringe. He took off the plastic sleeve protecting the needle's point, and pushed the plunger just a shade. Waving it under Sam's nose, he laughed as a little of the liquid squirted into the air.

"The plan was to make you inject yourself." He indicated the room they had left behind. Sam got the picture – he would have been forced at knifepoint to insert the needle into his own vein, making it look like a junkie taking an overdose – accidental suicide of an unreliable witness. "I donna suppose you'd care to oblige?"

Sam edged further away, trying desperately to stay on his feet.

Every nerve and sinew begged him to lie down and rest. Each movement was killing him, but stopping now was liable to prove even more fatal.

"No way. You want me, you gotta…come…get…me." He tried to sound confident, in control, but a constriction in his larynx betrayed him.

Guido would have gone for his throat then, but the thickly padded cervical collar afforded him protection. The bigger man lunged forward suddenly in a touch down tackle, knocking Sam off balance and slamming his back into the wall. The blow jarred his cracked ribs and took his breath away. The blood drained from his face.

"Sam!" yelled Al in horror, taking a frustrated swing at Guido.

"Leave him alone, you creep."

Guido was struggling with Sam, trying to get the hypo to its target. Sam twisted and squirmed, fighting to keep his bare, bruised arms away from the deadly needle point. Trying to wrest it from Guido's iron grip. He could smell exactly what was in there, and he had no desire to sample its hallucinogenic effects. His brain was already way more scrambled than he wanted it to get.

Al was frantically trying to keep track of what was going on, of where the syringe was, but he couldn't work out the tangle of limbs. He shouted directions to Sam and wished to God he could do more.

Sam was losing it. Exhaustion and pain and fear conspired to overpower him. Then a sudden last-ditch maneuver gave him possession of the weapon. By now, Sam had slid down the wall and found himself in an ungainly posture, his legs buckled to one side, feeling the cold harshness of the polished floor on his bare skin. Guido was part kneeling, part crouching over him, blocking him in.

'I'll only get one shot at this.' Thought Sam, groaning inwardly at the unintentional pun. As Guido fought to get the needle back, Sam raised his arm. He aimed for the jugular, which rage had made prominent in the huge man's neck. The point found its target, and Sam managed to empty a little more than half the contents into him before Guido ripped it out, his eyes staring wildly as he realized what was happening and the Rapture took its hold. He clutched at the puncture wound as if he could draw the evil substance out.

"Bull's eye. Got him, Sam! Go, Go, Go!"

Sam tried to crawl out from beneath the bulk, but Guido was totally crazed now, raining down furious blows on his head and body in anger and hatred and grief and drug induced madness.

Sam made feeble attempts to ward off the frenzied attack with one hand, whilst the other acted as an ineffectual shield. He wanted to scream for help, but his voice was just a hoarse whisper, and every breath was an agony. He felt his lungs would burst.

Guido was pounding his body with both powerful hands, as if he were kneading pizza dough, yelling profanities in Italian, which Sam was not sure he understood. For a change, Admiral Calavicci's knowledge was more extensive than that of his genius friend. He understood the expletives only too well, and shook an open hand across his chest waving the cigar like an extra finger and tutting, "Whoa, heav-yy."

He was still urging Sam to continued resistance, but he could see that his friend had precious little left in him with which to resist.

Then Guido began convulsing, his eyes rolling in his head. He slumped forward, on top of Sam, who hadn't the strength to push him off, but lay there, crushed against the wall by the villain's massive torso, still twitching and writhing on his lap.

The commotion had brought attention at long last. Dr Daniels and Nurse Woods were sprinting down the length of the corridor, closely followed by a couple of orderlies. They bent over Sam, pulling the unknown attacker off him. They had seen just enough to work out what had happened.

Ever so slowly, Sam's hand moved round to cradle his back protectively where the ribs had taken a pasting. The other hand gingerly rubbed the punching bag that used to be his stomach.

The phrase 'beaten to a pulp' suddenly held greater meaning for him. He screwed up his eyes against the glare of the strip lights above him, which burned into his brain. A searing pain threatened to engulf him with every breath.

"Sam? Buddy? Can you hear me?" Al's face was lined with consternation.

"Aaaargh, Jeez, Al, it… **hurts**." He managed, through clenched teeth. This time, he didn't suggest that there was anything even remotely wonderful about the sensation.

The doctor was checking him over, to determine the extent of his fresh injuries.

"Easy, son. We'll get you something for that." A gesture to one of the orderlies sent him scurrying for supplies. "Oh dear, it's really not your day, is it, young fellow?" The doctor was sympathetic as Sam flinched beneath his gentle touch. Sam thought that if he'd ever had a worse day, it was a blessing that he couldn't remember it.

The nurse took his wrist and felt for a pulse, which she reported to be erratic. Someone was restraining Guido, who was still fitting on the floor. An orderly retrieved the hypodermic and asked if he should send it for analysis. Sam forced himself to tell the doctor what was in it, and thus how Ruggiero Junior should best be treated. His speech was clipped; he made each word count.

Al could hardly believe his ears. 'Typical Sam,' he thought, 'altruistic to the core. If that had been me, I'd have let the punk lie there and rot.' It wasn't that clear-cut to Sam. Whilst Marco's death _wasn't_ on his conscience, Guido's would have been.

There was a flurry of activity.

Al was fussing.

"Well? Is he gonna be okay?" he asked, forgetting for a moment that they couldn't hear him.

Sam winced. He looked past the doctor, at Al. His voice was halting and plaintive.

"Ple-ease…tell…me…it's…over."

He sounded like a frightened child who'd fallen foul of schoolyard bullies.

"Calm yourself, dear boy," soothed the doctor "He can't hurt you anymore."

All trace of Sam's natural resilience had completely evaporated. He looked forlorn. It was not how Al thought of his friend, and he hated what he saw.

In Sam's world, 'give and take' tended to mean that Sam gave, and gave, selflessly, while others took, and then he gave some more.

Only now it seemed he had nothing left to give.

He was spent.

He deserved to be on the receiving end for a change. Al turned to his COM link at last, and began punching it back into life. Lights winked – red, orange, yellow, green, - traffic lights switching to go. It beeped. Sam found it oddly comforting. Al grinned at him.

"The drugs squad are raiding the Lab. They'll get Everyone, Sam. The quake prevented them from having a chance to cover their tracks. You'll still have to testify, but not for a while. Ziggy says (Thank God)" his gravel voice cracked with emotion, "Ziggy says you're gonna be fine, no permanent damage. You can relax. You are officially off duty, as of right now."

Sam didn't argue.

His breath was a series of strangled sobs. He acknowledged Al with the briefest twitch of his mouth, and then surrendered himself up to the doctor's ministrations.

Al watched anxiously as the kindly doctor tended his friend. Despite having been given another dose of painkillers, when they moved him, the pain flooded through Sam's body like a tidal wave. His agonized cry rang in Al's ears long after it had died on Sam's lips.

They wheeled him back to his room, where Marco still lay in a pool of blood. Hospital security was called to remove him, and to stand guard over the now unconscious Guido, who was being moved to a side room before he could wake up. The doctor insisted that another guard be stationed outside Sam's door, for his protection, and apologized to his patient that this simple precaution had not been taken before. He promised that no more unwelcome visitors would be allowed to trouble him.

Only when Al was absolutely sure that the huge man had been restrained and could pose no further threat to Sam, and that his tortured friend had been eased gently back into a clean bed and was finally resting, did he call up his door and go home.

Dr Beeks was waiting for him when he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber.

"Admiral how is he?"

"Alive." Beyond that, he wasn't prepared to commit himself.

"David Beckett is asking to talk to you again, he's waiting to…"

"Let him damned well wait." Cut in Al, and stalked off.


	17. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Tuesday 8th August**

Sam surfaced next morning to a world consisting entirely of labored breathing and intense discomfort. His neck was painfully stiff and he still had The Headache. It didn't feel like any place he wanted to be, especially on his birthday, so he allowed himself to be submerged again.

He took refuge in a dream world, the one place he could find solace. He drifted now, back to a farm in Elk Ridge, Indiana. He was a boy again, in his early teens. It was barely sunrise, and he was just finishing milking the cows. He unhooked Harriet and moved on to Aggie, the beautiful brown Guernsey cow with the soulful eyes. The milk struck the bottom of the bucket with a clang, like a cowboy lobbing baccy into a spittoon. When it was full, Sam tapped her rump affectionately.

"Good girl."

Then he ladled some of the warm milk into an old saucer and called:

"Donner! Blitzen!"

Whether it was his summons, or the smell, two kittens immediately came trotting into the barn, slinking round the wooden slats of the stalls, brushing wisps of hay from their ears with their paws. Sam tickled the backs of their necks as they drank. He savored the moment, basking in the dawn. It felt good to be Home. This was his favorite dream, and he made the most of it. He took in every detail of the familiar red barn – his father's wooden toolbox, the white enamel sink, the farm equipment, not high tech, but well maintained and functional.

He went out; sliding the huge door shut behind him, and made his way into the house, glancing across the fields on the way, to catch sight of his father on the tractor. He walked through every room in his parent's house, basking in the memories – the sturdy kitchen table with its clean linen tablecloth, the wooden chairs where they sat and ate together. He heard the banging of the pipes in the kitchen sink, smelt the plants on the window ledge, felt the soft folds of the curtains arranged neatly at the windows. He looked into the pantry, stocked full of good things. There would be his favorite peach cobbler for desert tonight. His Mom made the best in the State.

Everything was peaceful and wonderful, and just as he remembered it. When he was allowed to remember it. In his dream it was real again, and he could revel in life's simple pleasures.

Most men dreamed of beautiful women, of conquests in the bedroom (especially the Al Calavicci's of the world!). Or else they dreamed of doing great deeds, performing dare devil stunts, spending great riches, lifting them out of their ordinary humdrum routine.

To Sam, his everyday life _was_ the stuff of other men's fantasies – driving fast cars, being a test pilot, performing in the circus, on the stage, stuntman in the movies, top photographer, the list was endless.

He'd already done most of the things other men could only dream of achieving. But he would willingly trade it all for a life of swilling out hogs and harvesting crops. To Sam, his greatest ambition, the fulfillment of all his dreams, would be to be back on his parent's farm, surrounded by his loving family, with no greater challenge than getting his chores done before supper-time. He supposed that as a young man he must have resented those chores at times, but now they seemed like the ultimate privilege.

Into his dream ran Katie, little sister Katie; laughing and teasing - her ringlets bobbing up and down on her shoulders, her eyes alight with mischief. Sam chased her round the yard, making her shriek, scattering the hens, which clucked and squawked and flapped around in alarm. He caught his sister, and tickled her, and she protested half-heartedly.

Sam looked up to see his Mom watching them from the doorway; her light brown hair piled high, her brown gingham dress somehow symbolic. Next to her, with his hand on her shoulder, stood Tom. Big brother Tom, who suddenly sprinted forward, down the porch steps in a single bound and across the yard to join in, pretending to defend Katie, scrapping playfully with Sam, wrestling him to the ground so that they rolled in the dust, sending clouds into the summer air.

Katie watched, her giggles rising in pitch above their banter as they sparred. Thelma surveyed them indulgently form the doorway. They were good kids, and had to let off steam. She knew it would not get out of hand. Sam worshipped his older brother, and Tom would do anything for his siblings. She and John had good cause to be mighty proud of all three.

Then, in Sam's dream, his father called to them to get washed up for breakfast. Ham and eggs, home grown, orange juice and coffee.

And birthday presents.

This particular year, Sam recalled in his dream, his brother had given him an elegantly bound hard-back edition of Homer's Odyssey. The book still had pride of place on his shelves next to his bed at Project H.Q; right alongside the intricate wooden bookends his father had lovingly carved for him that same year. Simple gifts. Not vastly expensive or extravagant, but reflecting the warmth and affection and thoughtfulness which surrounded him. The most precious gifts - the best of times.

If only his dream could last forever. If only it could come true.

His Impossible Dream.

But at least he could enjoy the dream, could lose himself in it for a while. And it had a cathartic effect on him. His Inner Tranquility was restored.

The next time he awoke, the sparkle had returned to his light green eyes, and a smile creased the corners of his mouth. There was even a little color in his cheeks. He still had a headache, but it was tolerable. He was hungry, and that was always a good sign.

"That's more like the old Sam Beckett we all know and love." Al was only half teasing. He'd spent long hours pacing the corridors of the New Mexican bunkers, worrying. Despite Ziggy's assurances, he'd seldom seen Sam so low before, and Ziggy was not always the most infallible of experts. This Leap had really taken its toll on Sam, both physically and emotionally. Al had been afraid that the invisible scars might never heal. Yet now Al had seen his friend again, he was reassured. He had become adept at reading Sam's expression, an essential skill when they often met in circumstances that prevented overt conversations. He looked into Sam's eyes now, and knew with unequivocal certainty that Sam was going to be all right. His old alacrity had returned.

For his part, Sam didn't need to be told that Al had been blaming himself for not being there in the Lab. Whilst he couldn't pretend that he wouldn't have preferred it if the situation had proceeded according to plan, he was also acutely aware that it had been Al who had engineered his rescue from the giant cement mixer. He had no intention of chiding Al for his initial absence, nor asking him what had caused it. Al would not have let him down without a _very_ good reason, and that in itself was good enough for Sam. Al came up trumps in the end, and for that Sam would be eternally grateful. He didn't need to vocalize his gratitude either. The two men understood one another. It was time to move forward, not to dwell on what had passed.

Al's attire had resumed its normal state of abnormality: a bright mustard colored three-piece suit, suede like in texture, over a leaf-covered shirt in autumnal hues, blossoming from a black background. The broad silk tie was deep russet, matching the fedora, which had a black band around it, and was tilted at a rakish angle. For once, he was not waving his customary cigar around, or slapping the COM link, but had his hands behind his back.

Sam looked at him quizzically.

Al grinned from ear to ear.

"I guess you're bursting with curiosity, huh, birthday boy?"

He was, but Sam would never admit it to Al in a million Leap years.

With deliberate slowness - only partially attributable to the all-pervading pain that still accompanied any movement - he reached over to the bedside cabinet and picked up the jug. Then he poured himself a glass of water, swapped the jug for the tumbler, and raised it to his lips. Before imbibing, he lifted the glass towards Al, and inclined his head ever so slightly, as if to say "Cheers". Then he sipped the refreshing liquid slowly, watching Al out of the corner of his eye, smiling at his friend's mounting impatience, the tapping of the foot.

'Who is bursting, now?' he thought. 'Which one of us is going to crack first?' He was enjoying himself.

After a suitable pause, he adopted his best Southern accent:

"Why, sir, I'm a might touched y'all remembered lil' ol' me had a birthday!"

Al tried hard to remain straight faced and impassive, but he failed miserably. First, he smirked, then, he guffawed.

"Many happy returns, Sam!" he said, when he could speak clearly. "42: again!"

"I wish I could remember how I spent it first time round," replied Sam. "Did I have as much fun then?" Al wasn't sure if Sam was mocking him, or being sarcastic about his surroundings and his state of health, but he was smiling, determined not to sink into self-pity.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out, buddy." Al taunted him. It was a familiar theme.

"Now, are you gonna ask me what I've got behind my back, or am I outa here?"

The suspense was killing them both, but for one moment longer, Sam feigned disinterest. Then, as Al's face fell in defeat, he smiled broadly, setting down the drinking vessel with careful precision.

"Okay, okay." He put up his hands in surrender. "You win. Are you gonna show me what you've got there? Do I get a present, huh, do I?" he did his best to sound like an excited kid.

"Ta-da!" trumpeted Al, with a flourish, producing a huge round cake covered in soft sticky icing and groaning under the weight of forty-two blue candles.

Sam's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Master Chef Calavicci?" he laughed, "Where's your white hat?"

"What? Oh, no. This is one of Sammy-Jo's little concoctions. Like it?"

Sam gasped as he was struck by a sudden memory evoked by the name.

"Just don't ask me to blow out the candles." Sam replied, breathlessly.

Al did the classic double take at that. Sam was making role-reversal jokes again. Then Al snarled playfully at Sam:  
"Why I oughta…" he couldn't resist. He balanced the cake on the palm of one hand and drew back his arm. Sam shrank back in mock terror.

"You wouldn't…"

"Wanna bet?"  
"No; please, not that – anything but that." Sam grinned.

It was a good job no one was around to eavesdrop on his strange 'monologue'. Pure straight jacket stuff. A man with a serious persecution complex? All fears would be confirmed watching his next action.

As Al launched the cake towards his friend, Sam flung both arms across his face for protection, although both men knew full well that the cake would vanish the moment it lost contact with the hologram.

Al chuckled heartily. Sam was somewhat more restrained. Sometimes laughter really was the best medicine. If only it didn't hurt his ribs so much.

"You'd better get that cleaned up, before Sammy-Jo sees it." Sam warned, pointing to a perfectly clean floor in the hospital room as if he could see the gooey remains of the cake on the floor of the Imaging Chamber. "Tell her I appreciate the thought though."

He did, too, more than she would ever guess. He also appreciated the irony of Leaping, which led him to be celebrating his forty-second birthday for the second time, with a cake he couldn't have eaten even if Al hadn't thrown it at him, baked by his daughter when she was in her mid-thirties, and totally ignorant of her father's true identity. His expression grew wistful.

Al noticed the change in Sam's tone, and his face, and guessed at the cause. It was impossible to predict when Sam would recapture a memory, or how long he would hold on to it. Al thought it appropriate that Sam should have knowledge of his issue on this of all days. It was a time for families, even if they were absent. The expression on Sam's face suggested he found the knowledge an added source of pleasure.

The bleeping of the hand-link broke into both men's thoughts, and Al took it out of his pocket.

"Do you feel up to some company, Sam?" he inquired, looking at the COM link as if it were a crystal ball (which in a way of course, it was).

"As long as the natives are friendly!" joked Sam, not needing to qualify the allusion.

Right on cue, there came a hesitant knocking, as if someone was afraid of waking him, and the door opened a crack. A face peered round, making sure they were not intruding. The security guard was close behind, just in case.

Sam recognized the face at once, and responded:

"Come on in." he said, with genuine enthusiasm.

A man wheeled a woman into the room, and parked her wheelchair alongside Sam's bed. She looked pale and tired.

"Bill! Good to see you." Sam looked at Caitlin in her dressing gown. "Does this mean that someone was in a hurry to greet the world?" She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. Sam worried that he had said the wrong thing. Surely Al would have warned him if she had lost the baby? He looked to his friend for reassurance. Al shrugged.

"I'll leave you to it. I've got some cleaning up to do, remember?" he smiled and left.

"A boy, David!" enthused Bill, bursting with pride. "They've got him in an incubator, but the Doc says he'll be fine. And he's a fighter – after all, he's survived his first earthquake already!"

"Congratulations! I'm really pleased for you both." Sam was sincere. He was concerned for Caitlin, though. "Is anything wrong, Mrs. Donahue? Are you in pain?"

"Oh, Caitlin, please." She replied spontaneously, looking up. Then she avoided his eyes again. She couldn't bear to look at the bandaged head, the stiff collared neck, or the recumbent form.

Suddenly, Sam understood.

"Caitlin, then." He continued, gently, "I'm sorry if I gave you a scare. Don't worry, I'm going to be fine." It was typical of Sam to be so self-effacing, so apologetic.

She smiled then, and reached out to take his hand.

"We can never thank you enough. You really are our brave knight." Now, it was Sam's turn to look away, embarrassed. The movement made him wince. Caitlin stiffened. "You poor thing. It must be dreadfully painful."

"Only when I breathe." Sam smiled, joking earnestly. ""But what matter wounds to the body of a Knight Errant, for each time he falls he shall rise again, and Woe to the Wicked."" He quoted.

"Really, you are _the_ most incredible man, Mr. Beckett." Cat laughed.

"Now then, the name is – David." He corrected her. The sound of _his _name on her lips had brought a lump to his throat. He really liked these people. He was going to miss them. It was hard making friends and then losing touch so completely, so irrevocably. He hoped that David and the Donahues would develop a lifelong friendship after he left. Al had said that David was something of a loner. Well, he couldn't ask for better friends than these. Sam wondered if he could look them up once he got back to the future. The baby would most likely be in kindergarten by then. The idea appealed, although he realized he would have trouble explaining how he knew them. Even David was liable to forget.

The same process that Swiss-cheesed Sam's brain tended to leave those whose lives he invaded with little or no memory of their time in the Waiting Room; which was probably just as well for their sanity for the most part. He wondered how they felt when they switched back into their own lives, confronted by what he had done, what they were supposed to have done, with no real memory of it. Knowing how crazy it seemed to him, he wished them luck. So far, Al had usually been able to give long term predictions of happy-ever-afters – such a family would have six kids, that one would make a success of her career. So he supposed that they must get over the initial hiccup pretty well. Perhaps he should start keeping diaries for them.

While his mind had been thus wandering, Bill had been regaling him with the tale of how Caitlin had been in labor all through the 'quake, and how their son had made his grand entrance just as the last aftershock had subsided. Sam had been half listening, smiling politely. His brain was used to having to function on two or three different levels like this. Despite the headache, he hadn't missed much.

"He sure sounds like one tough cookie." He commented, to prove it. Then, on impulse, "Maybe I could look in on him, when I'm back on my feet?"

"Would you?" smiled Cat, obviously pleased. She squeezed his hand affectionately, and then let it go abruptly, as if surprised by her own boldness, or afraid she had hurt him. "I mean would you really like to?"

"I'd love to, if it's okay with the proud parents." Sam was feeling a certain kinship with Bill. He hadn't been able to be part of Sammy-Jo's babyhood; in fact he'd only seen her for one brief time when she was eleven, when he had learned of her existence. That didn't mean he loved her any less. He envied Bill the joys of being a hands-on parent. It would be pleasant to share in even this small part of the miracle.

Bill put a hand on Sam's shoulder, genuinely moved. He and Cat exchanged glances, they were smiling.

"We kinda hoped you'd feel that way," said Bill. "See, the thing is we've been talking it over. We'd like to call him Patrick David, if you have no objections?"

Sam was touched.

"I'd be delighted." He thought David would be too.

"And…" Cat continued, hesitantly.

Sam wondered what more they could possible have to add. He gave her an encouraging smile.

"Well, we don't want to presume, but…" Cat was fighting for the right words. It was obvious she wanted to ask something important, but was fearful of a rebuff.

"What is it, Caitlin?"

"It's a lot to ask, we know, and we will quite understand if you don't feel you can, but we were hoping that you would consent to be Patrick's godfather. We both agreed that we couldn't hope for a finer man to be an influence on our son."

Sam felt a lump rise in his throat. It was moments like this that made Leaping worthwhile. If ever he failed to get home and had to be stranded in another life, he hoped it would be one such as this.

For himself, he would have liked nothing better.

Yet he hesitated.

Sam worried that he would be presuming too much for David, that he was letting his own feelings dictate too much. It was a huge commitment to make on someone else's behalf: a profound responsibility. What would the real David think of the idea? How well would he fulfill the obligation?

The Donahues were trying to read his face; afraid they had offended him, or asked too much. Sam hedged while he tried to make sure in his own mind that he would say the right thing – for everyone.

"Oh, I don't know about that." He replied lightly, dismissing the praise he alone felt he hadn't earned, "his father is an honorable man, and his mother a virtuous woman. He's gonna grow up just fine without any help from David Beckett."

Cat blushed profusely; she was not at ease with praise either. But she looked crestfallen at what she took to be a refusal. Sam saw her disappointment. He thought about the profile of David, which Al had given him and the evidence of his philosophies in the contents of David's abode, and the observations of how much more than a name the two Beckett's had in common. Sam decided to trust in his instincts.

"Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't be honored to be the little guy's godfather. In fact, I think you just made me an offer I can't refuse."

They all laughed, but then Sam degenerated into a fit of coughing. His rib cage was still sensitive. Unbidden, Bill moved forward and helped Sam to shift into a more comfortable position, supporting his torso with one muscular arm, while adjusting the pillows with the other. Then he eased Sam gently back, and helped him to sip some water. Sam was struck with the sudden conviction that forging this friendship was as important a part of this Leap as destroying the drugs factory had been. It was not always the most dramatic acts that mattered most.

Sam gave a satisfied sigh.

Bill misinterpreted it.

"We mustn't outstay our welcome, Cat. David must be exhausted."

"Not at all, it's been wonderful to see you both." Sam said, in all honesty, although his head was beginning to throb again, and the coughing had left him feeling weak. "But I do think you should see to it that your wife gets some rest. You said yourself, she had quite a hectic day yesterday." The doctor in him was talking again, ignoring the impact the previous day had made on him.

Caitlin had to admit that she was tired, and anxious to check in on their new offspring, but she wouldn't leave until Bill had promised to bring her back again the next day. She took hold of Sam's hand again, patting it in a matronly fashion.

"You take care of yourself, now, David Beckett, do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am." Replied Sam meekly. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly. "You too." He ordered.

There had been a lighter spring in his step when Al emerged from the Imaging Chamber this time. His face looked less haggard. He answered Dr Beeks' questioning look with a nod and an enigmatic smile, as he wiped something sticky from his fingers with a large handkerchief.

It was enough. She was satisfied.

Not just about Dr Beckett's welfare, but to some extent that of Admiral Calavicci as well. He steadfastly refused to discuss his feelings with her, but that didn't mean she was ignorant of them. Now that just left one main concern, their 'prisoner', David Beckett. It was clear that although the main crisis had been averted, he was not about to go home. Ziggy stated categorically that Sam had to remain to present his testimony at the trial. Initially, Verbena would not have worried about the unprecedented length of this visitor's stay. With some it would have been a problem. Some had to be kept more or less permanently sedated, unable to cope with any aspect of the situation. David, however, had taken it all in his stride. But then they had become too relaxed, had got careless, and it had all gone horribly wrong. The consequences had been most serious for Sam, of course, but she was not prepared to dismiss the effect it was having on David. He was consumed by guilt and he needed help. He needed to talk to Al. He needed forgiveness.

Dr Beckett would forgive, even though David had almost cost him his life.

She was sure of that.

But Al refused to tell him what had happened. Not now, nor ever. He maintained that Sam had more than enough to contend with and didn't need the added strain of knowing how easily Ziggy could be taken out of the equation. She had to admit how devastating that knowledge could be. How the dread of a repeat performance could destroy what little stability he had. On balance, the Project Director was probably right. Sometimes ignorance could be bliss.

That still left David.

He had been full of contrition. He'd voluntarily told Gushie exactly how he'd managed to hack into Ziggy, and suggested ways to program in greater safeguards for the future. He'd been very helpful. Both Gushie and Tina had explained as much to Al at some length, but he had been in no mood to listen. He remained angry and intractable.

Dr Beeks tried repeatedly to get the Admiral to talk to David, but he made one excuse after another. None of them were convincing.

**She **knew why Al couldn't face David.

He may have been genuinely angry with the young man at first, and justifiably so. He was rightly worried about Dr Beckett and the danger he'd been placed in. That was natural, perfectly understandable. But by now he should have come to terms with all that, been able to continue with professional detachment.

The _real_ reason he couldn't let go of his anger was that deep down he had long since stopped blaming David for the crisis. Al had been the one to break the rules. It had been his carelessness that had introduced David to the handlink, his decision to let David hear Ziggy speak. His authorization had given David access to a computer.

But if he forgave David, he'd be left unable to forgive himself.

It was easier to direct the anger and the blame outward. Then it was possible to bear; just.

Such was Dr Beeks professional diagnosis, and it wasn't far from the truth. It was also her considered opinion that it was high time things got back on track. For both their sakes she had to get the two men talking. Now, his present demeanor suggested that the Admiral might at last be responsive. She decided it was time to get tough.

"Admiral…" she began.

"Here we go again," sighed Al, "Same old tune."

"Not this time. With respect, Admiral, this has gone on long enough. If Muhammad won't go to the mountain, I shall bring the mountain to Muhammad. I shall break the habit of a lifetime and let David out of the Waiting Room. After all, Ziggy assures me that there is no danger of Dr Beckett Leaping in the near future, so there is no risk involved."

Al's expression could have curdled milk, but he saw that she meant business, and would not be fobbed off with any more excuses.

'Might as well get it over with.' He thought. He squared his shoulders and approached the Waiting Room with the same enthusiasm that he usually reserved for divorce hearings.

Dr Beeks had calculated correctly. When she looked into the Waiting Room some considerable time later, Admiral Calavicci was still there, playing poker and swapping anecdotes with David like they were lifelong buddies. She had never before seen Al so relaxed in this environment. She had gambled that David's uncanny similarities with Dr Beckett would mean that he should be the one person to find just the right thing to say to get through to Al.

She had toyed with the idea of spying from the observation booth to find out how he did it, but the Project Director could have been aware of her, and that would have been too inhibiting. She may never know how he achieved it, but she was grateful to the visitor. Admiral Albert Calavicci may be brash and uncompromising, sometimes even a downright pain in the neck, but she had a profound respect for the man, and the way he coped with the near-impossible lifestyle that Dr Beckett's Leaps imposed upon him. She was glad to see him back to his old self. For his part, David too had regained his equilibrium. She didn't think there would be any lasting damage to his psyche. Content, she made her excuses and left – with a parting look of utter disbelief at the way the Admiral was playing with a hand like THAT!


	18. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Monday 14th August

Bill and Caitlin had been daily visitors to 'David's' bedside for the past week. Sam had apologized profusely for allowing Marco to destroy Bill's camera. He promised to buy them a new one as soon as he was able, but Bill wouldn't hear of it.

"It's a small price to pay after all you have done for us," he told Sam, "A camera we can get anywhere. Friends like you are irreplaceable."

He felt the same way about them.

They kept him informed – at his request – on young Patrick's progress, and were thrilled that when he was allowed up for a short walk he insisted on heading for the ICU to look in on him.

As the days passed, both patients grew steadily stronger, until on this Monday, their respective physicians both declared that they were ready to go home. It was taken for granted that Patrick would receive every care and attention he needed. He was feeding well and gaining weight, in fact he was positively thriving.

Sam's bruises were fading well. The lurid purples and reds, which had looked as if they belonged on one of Al's shirts, had now muted into subtler browns and yellows.

'Why do we doctors insist on using complicated terms such as contusions and abrasions?' Sam wondered idly. 'Is it just to make us sound more impressive? Baffle 'em with Science?' Then he remembered just how savagely those cuts and bruises had hurt, and decided that perhaps the simpler words were inadequate after all.

On the other hand, he was still sore and tired easily. He suffered from dizzy spells if he stood up for too long, and any exertion, even climbing stairs – left him breathless and tight chested. The stiffness in his neck was a constant nagging, which grew intolerable if he tried to abandon the supporting collar. Headaches, though less intense than the initial agony, were annoyingly persistent.

Dr Daniels made it perfectly clear that while his recovery was progressing remarkably well, he would only be allowed to leave on the understanding that he must get plenty of rest and not push himself too hard. The date set aside for the trial was fast approaching, and that was strain enough. The kindly doctor informed Sam that he had already secured one continuance on the grounds that his patient was not strong enough for a Court appearance. He now insisted that David was to take time to recuperate fully, and return for regular check-ups on his progress throughout his convalescence.

Sam didn't argue or protest at any of the conditions. Al had promised him time, until the trial. He'd earned it. He wasn't complaining. He remained in good spirits.

The Donahues did not provide sole companionship. Sally Reynolds had paid him a call, minus Lucky, to see how he was recovering. Her nails had been repaired with neat oval extensions - obviously by a skilled manicurist. They were glazed with a delicate rose pink polish. She was immaculately dressed.

Not that Sam had been in any condition to notice, nor care how she had looked at their last meeting. But her appearance was evidently of paramount importance to her, and he had to admit now that the effect of her meticulous attention to detail was stunning. She was drop-dead gorgeous. The image was of pure Hollywood glamour. The chiffon dress was clearly a designer original, unique and outrageously expensive, as was every perfectly matched accessory, from the stiletto heels to the ruby and diamond necklace round her deep-tanned neck. This woman made a career out of shopping.

Sam thanked her twice over, once for saving his life, for which no amount of thanks would suffice, and secondly for her outstanding generosity in providing for his undoubtedly expensive treatment. He told her that it restored his faith in Human Nature that someone should show such kindness to a complete stranger. He didn't seem aware of the fact that he was describing his own entire way of life.

Miss Reynolds had modestly denied any credit for saving his life, saying that Lucky had been wholly responsible. Sam knew better, but said nothing except that he was grateful that Lucky had been there, which was putting it mildly. Sally also told him that the money was unimportant – she had more than she knew what to do with, and considered him a worthy cause. She apologized repeatedly for the fact that her first interview had alerted the brothers to his survival. She'd felt simply mortified when she'd learned what he'd been put through that night as a result. If there was anything else she could do for him, she insisted, anything at all, he need only ask and she would be only too happy to help. She handed him her card, embossed and printed in gold leaf.

Sam politely thanked her again for her interest, and assured her that he was being well cared for. She maintained that she should be thanking him. Her life had never been so exciting, she explained. She and Lucky had both become overnight celebrities, had even been interviewed by Jay Leno on 'The Tonight Show'. She positively basked in all the attention, and was the envy of all her friends.

'It's an ill wind…' Sam thought, with a wry grin.

Al had also popped in a couple of times, spinning tales of poker sessions with David and other such trivia. Sam was glad that the two were on such good terms – of course he had no idea of the tension that had once existed between them – although he was shocked to find that he experienced a slight pang of jealousy that Al was spending more time with David than with himself. He dismissed the feeling sharply as unworthy, both of him and of Al. It was not as if he were starved of company. On the contrary, in addition to Bill and Cat's regular social calls, Frank had brought his wife, Mary, to meet his savior. Bill had told them both the whole story, and they had been filled with even greater admiration than before. Once they had got over the embarrassing adulation, they too were welcome faces at his door. Mary was a little older than Caitlin, and more homely in appearance. Like her husband she had a tendency to over-weight, advanced pregnancy notwithstanding, but she was by no means obese. Well covered, Al might have said, a good handful, like a Boticelli painting. Her face was rounded, and her eyes twinkled with merry laughter behind her thin metal-framed glasses. She had thick wavy brown hair, which cascaded around her shoulders and almost down to her waist. Frank called it her crowning glory, with evident pride. They may not be the world's most glamorous couple, but they were well suited to each other and obviously blissfully happy together.

As soon as they knew David was being discharged, both families rallied round. The ladies each suggested he should go home with them and be cosseted; that he should not have to fend for himself. Whilst he thanked them politely for their concern, and was moved by their genuine desire to help, he steadfastly refused to impose on either family, particularly at such a crucial time for their offspring. He maintained that they had more than enough to occupy their energies, without having an 'invalid' – as they described him – to fuss over. He promised to behave himself, assuring them that he would follow doctor's orders to the letter, and take things easy. Eventually, they were forced to concede defeat, but insisted on the right to look in on him periodically, and to provide occasional meals: "so that we know you are eating properly."

Sam had laughed and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. These ladies were formidable, especially when they ganged up together and had the added weight of their husbands behind them. He was glad they were on his side.

Bill had been to David's home to get him some clean clothes etc. He told Sam that the police had found the Thunderbird parked outside. Just as Sam predicted they would. It was the most obvious way to cover their tracks. For David's sake Sam was pleased that they hadn't wrecked it in some deserted spot. It would have been a wicked waste of a wonderful old car. They had brought it now to the hospital to convey him home.

When he was dressed and ready to leave, his personal guard of honor was waiting to escort him out. He stopped to thank Dr Daniels for making his stay as comfortable as possible, shaking him warmly by the hand. From the Nurse's station, Reba Woods wished him luck, flashing him her lovely smile. Sam told her she had been a sight for sore eyes, and that her gentle care had helped to speed his recovery. She gave a coy giggle and replied that he was more than welcome, and had been a very good patient.

Dr Daniels moved on to his next patient. Sam caught sight of the figure in the bed through the open door. As she turned to welcome the doctor, their eyes met. Recognition was mirrored in them and she raised her hand in greeting. She still looked pale, and vulnerable, her body somehow dwarfed by the cage that kept the bedcovers from pressing on her injured leg. Yet she looked much improved to how he had last seen her. He smiled his acknowledgement of her and called:

"Trudi; glad to see you on the mend."

Then he prepared to walk on, but she begged him to go in. He excused himself from his friends for a moment and entered her room.

"Do you two know each other?" inquired Dr Daniels.

"I'm so pleased I've seen you." Said Trudi, then, to the doctor,

"This is the wonderful man I told you about, Doctor. **He's** the one who saved my life."

Dr Daniels looked from one patient to the other in astonishment.

"No! Really? Small world, eh?" he shook his head in disbelief.

"You are a man of many talents, Mr. Beckett."

"You didn't tell me your full name." Trudi addressed Sam again. "I thought I'd never get the chance to say 'Thank you'."

Sam looked uncomfortable. "My pleasure." He smiled, though his memory of the incident was and would remain far from pleasant.

She looked at his cervical collar, concern in her eyes.

"I hope that wasn't my fault, or… Peter's." she said the name with difficulty, swallowing hard. Sam looked at Dr Daniels, who nodded slowly. As he suspected, she had been told. At least that was one onerous task he'd not been expected to perform on this Leap. He silently thanked Heaven for small mercies.

It appeared, at least superficially, as if she was coping with the news better than he would have dared to hope. Her eyes were red-rimmed from much crying, but if she was grateful to him for saving her life, then at least she wasn't feeling guilty for surviving – a common reaction.

In answer to her query, he replied:

"No, of course not." He declined to elaborate on how his injuries _had_ been sustained. She smiled her relief. Then a cloud crossed her face and she became serious again.

"It wasn't his fault, you know." She said, earnestly. "You _must _believe that."

For a moment Sam was at a loss to understand what she meant. He'd just told her Peter wasn't to blame for his injuries. Was she saying that she didn't blame him for dying? Another classic response – anger at being left behind. Then – realization.

"The accident?"

"He couldn't help losing control. He was stung by a wasp, you see, and he had a – a severe allergic reaction. There was nothing we could do." She sobbed quietly as she relived it in her mind, but it was evidently important to her that her husband be exonerated.

It all made sense to Sam at last. The car hadn't appeared faulty in any way – no blown tire or other obvious malfunction. And the driver, Peter, had not looked or smelt as if he'd been drinking. He hadn't seemed to be a likely candidate for heart failure either. The situation Trudi now described fitted perfectly the scene he'd witnessed. It had truly been a tragic accident, which no one could have foreseen. One of those unfortunate combinations of circumstance that can only be down to damned bad luck. Once again, Sam's heart went out to this sweet young woman whose life had been torn apart by something as seemingly innocent as a tiny insect. He remembered what Al had told him – first time around Peter had not been the only fatality. Trudi, Frank and the driver of the Station Wagon had all perished. Four lives; one wasp. It certainly made one aware of how fragile and precious human life was.

It was obvious that Trudi needed Sam to say something. Some reassuring response to make everything better. Needed to know that Peter's reputation was intact. One of the reasons he kept Leaping into these situations was because he had the knack of knowing the appropriate things to say. This time, his aching head was not so sure he had the right answers. What could he possibly say to take away the hurt and the loss? Nothing could bring Peter back. He took a deep breath, and hoped for inspiration. When none was forthcoming, he simply spoke from his heart.

"I'm so sorry." He began, sincerely, "Please don't distress yourself. Peter wasn't responsible for what happened. No one _asks_ for allergies. If he was sensitive to wasp stings, he could even have suffered anaphylactic shock. Certainly, without anti-histamines there was nothing anyone could have done in the circumstances, isn't that right, Doctor?" He looked to Dr Daniels for confirmation, thinking – nothing _I_ could have done, either, short of Leaping into the wasp and deciding not to sting him!

Perhaps this encounter was as much for his benefit. He needed the explanation to lay the ghost of his feeling of inadequacy that he'd been unable to save her husband. He had to accept that there was nothing _he_ could have done for Peter, that there were limits, even to the miracles he constantly performed. It may not seem fair, but as Al once pointed out to him, some things just aren't meant to be changed.

"Indeed not." The medical expert verified, clearly impressed by Sam's knowledge. "These things don't give one much time to react. In fact, it could have been much worse."  
'Yeah, tell me about it,' thought Sam, remembering clearly the smell of the fumes and the heat and the blood and the sound of Trudi's screams, and the force of the explosion, 'but not for Peter, cut down so young. It couldn't have been worse for him.'

He looked compassionately at Trudi, wondering if she had taken it that way too, but she seemed appeased.

"The fact it wasn't worse is down to Mr. Beckett here, I think." She looked straight at him, with those clear blue eyes. He squirmed. He never found it easy to stand on a pedestal.

Trudi reached out to him and he took her hand, patting it gently.

A look of mutual understanding passed between them. He didn't know what else he could say. She started to extol his virtues again, for his past deeds and his present comfort. Sam glanced then towards his friends waiting patiently by the door.

The message his look gave to them was crystal clear:

"Get me out of here!"

Bill and Frank huddled together, whispering. Their wives smiled. Part of them was enjoying his discomfort. They knew he was a hero too, and deserved the praise. Yet they were good enough friends by now to respect his modesty.

The cavalry charged in to his rescue.

"Beg pardon, ma'am, for the intrusion," cut in Frank, "but I reckon it's high time my pard and I got this young fella home, before the Doc here decides to revoke his parole."

Sam smiled, relieved at the shift in emphasis, taking up his cue:

"Yeah, that's right. I got time off for good behavior, so I guess I'd better behave."

Dr Daniels laughed, while trying hard to look stern. The kindly father figure again.

"It _is_ still early days, Mr. Beckett. So straight home to bed with you now, my lad, or I _may_ just change my mind about letting you go. Shoo."

Bill and Frank took an arm each and propelled Sam towards the door as if taking him into custody. They were - protective custody. Trudi watched him go, calling her thanks again.


	19. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

By the time Frank had driven him home in the T-bird, Sam had to confess he was extremely tired, even if this journey was mercifully uneventful. Frank had been nervous about volunteering to drive David home, unsure if the younger man would feel safe with him behind the wheel after his experience that last time. Sam had reassured him that it had been quite natural for him to freeze in the circumstances. It could have happened to anyone. He was confident that Frank was not a reckless driver and was happy to place himself in the Texan's hands. Sam didn't feel that he should drive himself just yet, especially as the collar restricted his movements and his field of vision. He was grateful for the offer of a chauffeur for the trip. Sam knew that Frank was finding it hard to get back 'in the saddle' as it were. He had the impression that when they had visited him over the past week, either Mary or Bill had done most of the driving.

Frank needn't have worried. He drove impeccably.

When they arrived, Frank carried in a small hold-all and put it down on the computer chair. It contained all the things Sam had been brought during his sojourn in hospital, including pajamas, get well cards, computer magazines (which he'd browsed through but hadn't been in the mood to study) and a thick, well illustrated book on photography, which he'd asked to borrow from Bill, but only half read. Bill had assured him that he was unconcerned about the date of its return. "Hang on to it as long as you like. Enjoy. Perhaps we can go shoot some pictures together when you're fit?" Sam hoped that he or David would do just that at some stage.

Mary fussed round when Sam unpacked the bag, putting everything in its proper place, nagging him to ease up. She bullied him into sitting down while she made him a coffee, and stood over him till he drank it. (He took it black, and found it eased his breathing.) She sounded like his mother. She sounded like Everybody's Mother. He appreciated her concern, but felt somewhat smothered by it. He was pleased he had left the place in apple-pie order before going out on that fateful Sunday night. At least she had no excuse to change the bed-linen or spend ages washing dishes, tutting all the while about how men needed looking after, being hopeless at managing on their own. She conceded that he did pretty well- 'for a bachelor'.

He didn't quite manage to stifle a yawn. Frank noticed and ushered his wife to the door, telling Mary she should let David take her advice and have a rest, which he could achieve more easily if left alone. She elicited a promise that he would call if there was 'any little thing' he needed, as a condition of her departure.

Alone at last, Sam reveled in the solitude for once. The chance to do nothing, and not feel guilty or frustrated by the inactivity. This was the longest Leap he could remember, and normally he was impatient to get it over with and move on, ever hopeful that he was getting nearer to going Home. This Leap, he was glad of the time: time to literally get his breath back.

The peace didn't last long. An hour or so later, Sam was dozing when he was disturbed by a loud banging on his door. It sounded as if someone was trying to kick it in. He rose stiffly and went to answer it, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to have to defend himself yet again, but poised in readiness. His neck ached.

He wasn't expecting company. He certainly wasn't expecting the sight that greeted him as he opened the door.

He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't still dreaming.

All that was immediately visible was the most humungous Ali Baba basket of oranges Sam could imagine, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a huge bow of yellow ribbon. It had a pair of bandy legs sticking out of the bottom, two arms barely holding it around, and a head perched on top like a ripe pineapple.

The head belonged to Clifford Bull, the Bullfrog foreman from the building site.

Sam's jaw dropped in astonishment. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing at the ridiculous spectacle.

"Begging your pardon, son, were you asleep?" the voice boomed. The man couldn't whisper if his life depended on it.

"No problem." Sam managed, half wanting to add facetiously, 'I had to get up to answer the door anyway.'

"Well, then, are you gonna let me in, or are you waiting for me to take root and grow a few more?"

Sam chuckled. "Sorry. Come in, that looks heavy."

He stepped aside to give Bull room to pass. The foreman staggered in and deposited the basket on the table with a huge sigh of relief.

"Not a case of Greeks bearing gifts, I hope?" Sam pretended he was joking, but the hope was a fervent one. He indicated the offering on the table and looked at Bull; the last person he would have expected as a well-wisher.

The ape looked completely vacant, but then Sam supposed he was not the type to be well versed in Greek legends, even one as famous as the Wooden Horse of Troy.

"Never mind. Take a seat. This is a pleasant surprise."

'At least, I hope it is pleasant.' He added silently. He could not be completely sure that Bull was not mixed up with the drugs operation and had somehow avoided being implicated. In which case he could be here to make sure David would never testify.

Perhaps the fruit was indeed a Trojan Horse. Containing what?

Poison injected into some of the oranges, deadly but untraceable? A venomous spider nesting in the bottom of the basket waiting to pounce? Or something less subtle, like a bomb hidden among the fruits?

Sam's smile was friendly, but he was alert, watching Bull closely for any sign as to his true intent.

Bull accepted the proffered chair. His face was red from the strain of hauling the weight, and he was sweating profusely. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"Can I get you something? A coffee, glass of water?" Sam was naturally hospitable.

"I don't want to be no bother to you, boy. I'm supposed to be visiting the sick after all. But a glass of water would go down a treat, if it ain't too much trouble."

Sam went to the kitchen cupboard and took out two tall glasses, which he filled from a pitcher kept in the fridge. He was careful not to turn his back on the gorilla. Then he sat down opposite Bull and they both took a long draught of the cool liquid.

"That sure hits the spot." Bull smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand.   
"You're looking tired, boy. How you doing?" he **sounded** genuine, but was he?

"Not so bad, thanks. I can't complain." Sam started hoping Al would pop in, just in case.

"This here," Bull indicated the mountain he'd delivered, "is from all the guys from the site. We got together, but couldn't agree what to get you. In the end, we came up with this." He paused.

He looked at Sam. "You **do eat** oranges, don't you?"

Suddenly, Bull looked vulnerable, almost pathetic. Beneath the bluff and bluster beat a heart of gold. (Rather like someone else Sam knew!) Bull really wanted to make a good-will gesture and was suddenly afraid that it could be monumentally inappropriate.

Sam bit back a self-conscious snigger. He relaxed.

"How can anyone live in sunny California and **not** like oranges?" He countered. "Thank you, all of you." He unwrapped the basket and took one of the oranges from the top of the precarious pile. As he peeled it, he motioned to Bull to help himself.

"I'll never get through all these by myself, though. It'll be freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast from now on, that's for sure."

Bull took an orange and they ate in silence for a while.

"These are real good." Sam said at last. "What'd I do to deserve the five star treatment?"

"You kiddin'? When we heard from Donahue and Bannerman what you'd done, why we couldn't hardly credit it. How you'd taken it on yourself to stop those drugs getting onto the streets. I tell you, boy, there wasn't one of us who didn't admire you for it. We were real impressed you got that scum caught. Mind you, you should've come to us. We would all have been behind you, all the way. We could have gone in there together, given you back up. Maybe saved you a lot of grief."

"Yeah, right. Don't I wish." Said Sam, with the benefit of hindsight. "Trouble was, no offence, but we weren't exactly sure who we could trust." He admitted.

"Hey, I guess I can understand that." Conceded the Bullfrog.

Sam was seeing the man in an entirely new light, and he liked what he saw. It just went to prove that you couldn't judge a book by its cover. Sam had begun rubbing his collarbone absently; the aching in his neck caused his muscles to tense. He rotated his shoulders to try and ease the stiffness, feeling the joints creak.

"Here, let me get that for you." Bull saw the gesture and stood up. He went round behind Sam and began massaging his shoulders. When Sam expressed amazement that he should possess such a skill, Bull explained:

"I used to give boxing lessons at a Youth Centre many years ago. This sorta went with the territory."  
"Mmmm, that feels great, thanks." Sam relaxed under the expert touch. He closed his eyes. "You're full of surprises today, Mr. Bull."

"Call me Cliff, boy. We ain't at work now." He snorted, as if he'd made a bad joke. "That reminds me. The other reason for the oranges…"  
"There's **another** reason?"

"The guys wanted you to know that there are no hard feelings."

"Say what?" Sam had lost the thread of the conversation.

"They don't blame **you** for losing their jobs."

It was one of those moments where events take an unexpected turn and things get crazy. As Bull said the word 'blame', Al's door opened and he sauntered into the room. Sam hadn't noticed - his eyes were still shut, and he was concentrating on trying to make sense of his guest's bombshell.

Al was dressed in a light brown mottled shirt, tortoiseshell braces holding up mahogany colored trousers. The tie was narrow, and patterned with cornstalks. The smile he wore quickly turned to a look of horror. From where he stood, he saw Sam, sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of Al, or anything else. Was he unconscious? Was he already dead?

Standing over him, trying to strangle him despite the now familiar collar, was the ape, Bull, who was shouting something about Sam being held responsible for somebody losing their jobs.

"Sam? Sa-am! Wake up! You gotta fight back, buddy."

Sam's eyes snapped open.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Sam was talking to both men simultaneously, not sure which one was raving most.

"Look out, Sam. He's behind you." Now Al sounded like he was in a pantomime. Only he wasn't acting. He was taking this seriously.

At the same time, the foreman said:

"You telling me you didn't know?" Bull was genuinely shocked.

"Don't just sit there, Sam…" Al wondered if Sam had been drugged, paralyzed. He was showing no indication of even trying to defend himself.

Al started button bashing again – looking for something, anything that would help Sam out of his latest predicament.

Sam was trying not to laugh at Al's misconception. He didn't want Bull to misinterpret it. He tried to think of a way to reassure his friend, without the other man thinking he was an off-ramp short of a freeway. It was a common occurrence. He decided Al would just have to sweat it out a bit longer. He was more anxious to find out what Bull was talking about.

"I assumed somebody'd told you, boy. Jeez, now I feel bad."

Al was confused. Sam was alternately smiling and looking bemused, and now the ape was all apologetic.

"I wish SOMEBODY _would_ tell me. Now." Sam didn't care which listener obliged, man or hologram, as long as he started getting some answers. The confusion was making his head spin.

"You're tensing up again, boy. Relax." Bull's big hands were remarkably soothing as he concentrated on the massage again.

Al's face lit up with the dawning of comprehension.

"A **massage**? And I thought…Well, ain't that a kick in the butt!" Al was laughing at himself now, realizing the absurdity of the situation.

"It doesn't pay to Leap to conclusions."

Sam teased him, grinning broadly. Al shot him a look.

Behind him, Bull stiffened.

"I guess I'd better explain…" he began.

Al's COM link flashed and squealed. "Oh boy, Sam, we never thought of that!" Sam's look said 'Don't you start. That's my line!'

Now, he got his explanation – in stereo – from in front and behind, man and mirage speaking together:

"RSC's a family business, right?" opened Al.

"The cops arrested everyone involved in the drug operation." Began Bull. "We were **all **questioned, but they were satisfied that us 'ordinary' workers were all ignorant about what was going on under our noses, so to speak."

Sam cringed, remembering how the smell of Rapture had haunted him.

"All the bad guys were members of the Board, Sam, or should I say all the Board members were bad guys."

"The site was sealed for a while, when they were gathering evidence, but after it was released, there was no-one to authorize a return to work."

Sam was engaging in mental arithmetic again. "No bosses, so no pay checks, huh?" Sam filled in the bottom line.

"Got it in one."

"That's about the size of it."

Sam recalled ironically how he'd assumed that he hadn't Leaped in to get David on the unemployment line. 'Oh, my prophetic soul!' he quoted silently, though for the life of him he could not remember the source of the quotation. He'd achieved exactly that, and for a good many more people as well, including his newfound friends, Bill and Frank. But they hadn't said a word, not a single reproach. All Bill had talked about was how lucky they were, because the quake hadn't caused any major structural damage to their home. No mention of the fact that they had no means to pay the rent. How were they going to cope?

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea." He said to Bull, his shock registering in his voice.

He added, to Al. "There must be **something **I can do?" his tone was almost pleading. He didn't like leaving loose ends, especially catastrophic ones like this.

"Don't see what, boy. It's not your problem. I told you, the guys all agree you did the only thing you could. We wouldn't have it any other way."

Al was concentrating on Ziggy's hand-link, he appeared to be listening intently, and his furrowed brow gradually smoothed.

His face broke into a grin.

"It might just work, Sam. I think you could pull it off. Ziggy says odds are eighty-nine per cent in your favor."

Sam looked at him quizzically; it was rare to hear him, or Ziggy, being so positive. But Sam wasn't complaining. To the foreman he said:

"Leave it with me, Cliff. In my experience, things often have a habit of turning out for the best." He winked at Al.

Bull gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze, and then moved round to face him, passing through Al, who pretended to flinch.

"You're old beyond your years, boy." He told David, looking Sam straight in the eye. "But I ain't gonna make the mistake of underestimating you again. City Hall's put the contract out to tender, but they don't seem in any hurry. If you reckon you can pull some deal out of the hat to save us, good luck to you. Only no Lone Ranger heroics this time, huh? You need any help, you call on us, and we'll form a posse. Okay?"

"Gotcha," Sam smiled at him, "and thanks – for everything." He pointed to the heap of oranges. "Pass my thanks on to the guys, too." Sam instructed him.

Bull took his leave then, apologizing again for disturbing David's sleep, and for being the bearer of bad tidings, and wishing him a speedy recovery. Sam shut the door behind him and turned back to Al, who was examining the large basket of oranges intently, as if it were the archaeological find of the century.

"Oh, boy, Al, if you could have seen your face…" Sam laughed as heartily as he dared. ""Look out, Sam, he's behind you!" I ask you…" he mimicked Al's warning tone with uncanny accuracy.

"Not another word." Cautioned Al, without looking up. "Not one more word, or I'm outa here, and you can go figure out for yourself how to get everyone out of the mess you've gotten them into."

"Ouch, kinda touchy, aren't we?" Sam moved round into Al's line of vision, no longer smiling. That last remark had struck a little too close to the truth for comfort. Al realized he'd gone too far, wounding his friend's feelings unnecessarily, and he was contrite.

"So? What've I gotta do, then? Rob a bank?" in other words:

'You're forgiven, Al. Back to business as usual.' Sam sat down on the bed wearily.

"Nothing so dishonest, or risky." Al countered. "In fact, it couldn't be simpler. That's the beauty of it."

"Spill the beans, Al."

"Okay, okay, keep your shirt on." Al walked round the table and struck up a grand pose. He was determined to milk this for all it was worth.

"Ziggy says there's this big Kahuna in the City. One James Anthony Reynolds. Owns a huge conglomerate – into shipping, oil, real estate, you name it: worth Mega-Bucks. And word is that he's in the market for some new investments!" Al was waving his cigar around, making expansive gestures and generally being theatrical. Sam was trying hard to look unimpressed.

"So all I gotta do is walk up to this total stranger and talk him into setting up his own construction company, so he can take on the entire workforce of Ruggiero and Sons, huh? Sure, piece of cake."

"No way. You go to one of the Company Directors." Al said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which to him it was. He was smiling mischievously.

"Wanna run that by me again? I must be missing something."

"Are you just playing dumb, or is your head bothering you again, Sam?" Al's smile vanished. He was concerned. Sam usually picked up clues a lot quicker than this. His friend still looked pale, and bone-weary. It was, after all expecting too much to think that anyone, even Sam, could get completely back up to scratch so soon after such a debilitating experience.

Al was used to thinking of his friend as invincible, leading a charmed life. He reminded himself sharply that Sam was only human after all. Ziggy had predicted that it would take about six weeks for the broken bones to knit and for all trace of the other symptoms to dissipate fully.

"Let's just say it's been a long day, okay?" Sam had experienced many longer days, and more challenging ones, both physically and mentally, yet this one had been strangely draining. Since his youth, he had thrived on very little sleep. He was adept at burning the candle from both ends, virtually hyperactive. He found it frustrating to have to accept how quickly he became worn out these last few days - how difficult it was to concentrate on anything for long. Al was right, he had developed another splitting headache, but he had no intention of whining about it. He rubbed his temples.

"You feel like spelling it out for me, Al?"

"The Company Director just happens to be the boss's daughter."

Al wasn't going to insult Sam's intelligence by handing him the solution on a plate. Sam would get there, in the end, given time.

To give him an even bigger hint, Al wandered around the room, pausing by the bookshelf where Sam had placed Bill's photography manual. Sam had inserted a piece of card to mark his place, and it stood out.

"Good book, is it?" Al nodded to it, and reached out as if he would have taken it from the shelf. Sam got up and joined him. If Al wasn't changing the subject, then he was making a point. As his eyes fell on the bookmark, realization dawned with infinite clarity, but he decided not to let on. Not quite yet.

"What was the name of this mogul again?"

Al humored him.

"James. Anthony. _Reynolds_." He said, slowly and deliberately, stabbing the air with his cigar to lend further emphasis to each word. Sam reached for the book.

"Bingo!" he pulled out the card with all the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. It was an embossed calling card, with lettering in gold leaf, bearing the name of the company director daughter, who had told Sam that if there was ever _anything _else she could do for him, he need only ask. Sam ran his fingers over the letters, and looked at Al.

"I guess it's time to find out how sincere she was when she gave me this."

Sam made himself comfortable and picked up the phone. He looked again at the card, and punched in the numbers.

In her summer residence overlooking the beach, Sally Reynolds stepped out of her Jacuzzi. She put on a soft toweling bathrobe in a delicate shade of peach, and wrapped a matching towel, turban style, around her dripping wet hair. Then she picked up her martini and took it out onto the balcony to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine. Lucky padded out behind her, and lay down with her head on her front paws. Sally was reclining on her sun-lounger, humming softly to herself, when the telephone rang.

Lucky pricked up her ears. She stood up and trotted back through the open glass sliding doors, into the house. She jumped up onto the coffee table, resting her front paws on the edge while she removed the cordless phone from its base unit. She returned to the patio with it held gently between her teeth, whereupon she laid it carefully in her mistress' lap. Sally lazily picked up the receiver with one hand, while the other tickled the back of Lucky's neck.

"Good girl."

The Afghan lay down again.

"Sally Reynolds here. Who's calling?"  
"Sorry to trouble you, Miss Reynolds," began Sam politely, "its David Beckett. I'm the…"

"Mr. Beckett!" she interrupted, "How lovely to hear from you. What a wonderful surprise. How are you today? Feeling stronger, I trust?"

She sounded genuinely pleased that he had called. Sam felt optimistic. Perhaps this would be as easy as Ziggy predicted after all.

"They let me out of the hospital this afternoon. I'm getting better day by day, thank you for asking."

""Every day, and in every way, I'm getting better and better."" mocked Al, affecting a maniacal twitch of which Herbert Lom would have been proud. Sam gave him a withering stare and tried hard not to laugh. The effort nearly choked him, and he covered his mouth as he coughed.

"Sounds like you still have a way to go." Sally sympathized. "Any problems, you get yourself back to that hospital toot sweet, you hear? Send the bill to me." She stroked Lucky's head, smiling to herself.

"That's very generous of you, ma'am."

"No worries. I didn't save your life just to have you expire due to neglect. I told you, any time you need something, you only gotta say the word."

"I was kinda counting on you still feeling that way, Miss Reynolds, cos, boy, have I got a favor and a half to ask of you."

She sat bolt upright, intrigued.

"Go on. And call me Sally."

So Sam explained the situation, and his own feeling of responsibility. He told her that every single one of the men was hardworking, decent and honest, and didn't deserve such bad luck, just because they had unknowingly worked for crooks. He told her especially about Frank and Bill and how their families would suffer with no wages coming in. He apologized for presuming upon her generosity, but he had nowhere else to turn, and if she refused him, as she had every right to, at least he would know he had tried. He figured he had nothing to lose.

As she listened, interjecting an occasional question, she stood up and walked back inside. Again the faithful Lucky followed.

Sally paced the floor, her bare feet sinking into the deep pile of her rich sapphire colored carpet.

Finally, Sam finished, breathless. Sally emptied her martini glass and put it down on her smoked glass cocktail bar.

"So you think I should use my influence to persuade Daddy that he ought to take on the contract for the Court House?"

"I've done some research." Sam looked at Al and the ubiquitous hand-link. "Rumor has it Mr. Reynolds is looking for new projects. And I honestly believe this would be a good investment for him. I wouldn't dream of asking otherwise."

Sally laughed softly then.

'That's it,' thought Sam, 'she thinks the idea is outrageous. I've blown it.'

He was about to apologize for wasting her time and hang up when she spoke.

"Daddy was right about you, Mr. Beckett."

"H-he was?"

"We've done some research of our own. We've found out all about this brick of yours, and the computer set-up you helped design.

Matter of fact, Daddy had already decided to try and poach you. He likes your ideas and he likes your attitude. Rest assured, such uncommon zeal shall not go unrewarded, Mr. Beckett. If he has to take on the whole crew in order to get you onto our payroll, I reckon Daddy will call it money well spent."

She laughed again.

It was music to Sam's ears.

"That's very flattering, Miss Reynolds."

"You're blushing, Sam," observed Al, with his usual flair for stating the obvious. Sam glared at him again. He kept his embarrassment in check by reminding himself that David had earned the greater part of her praise before his interference.

"Not in the least." Sally insisted. "Listen. I'm gonna call Daddy right now. You tell your friends their vacation is nearly over. Give me a couple of days to set things up and then I'll get back to you. Where can I reach you?"

Sam gave her David's number, and thanked her wholeheartedly, telling her he was once again deeply in her debt.

"Now don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Beckett. You did right to call me. I think we're all gonna come out of this as winners, don't you?"

Sam gave Al a questioning look. The COM link chirped and Al raised a thumb. It was all the confirmation he needed. "It's sure starting to look that way, Miss Reynolds."

"Sally," she corrected, "Now you get yourself an early night, you hear? If I'm fixing you all up with jobs, you can repay me by getting yourself fit for work just as soon as ever you can. Deal?"

"Sounds like a very fair deal to me, Miss uh, Sally. Good night."

"Good night, David Beckett." She disconnected the call, then immediately dialed her father, as promised.

Sam replaced his receiver and smiled broadly at Al. Then he stood up, curled his hand into a fist and punched the air above his head triumphantly. "Yesss!"

"You did it, Sam! This is the start of a long and successful association for the Reynolds Consortium and the workers from the site. They all get good jobs: every one of them, Sam, and a raise in salary. Things are looking up, pal." Al beamed.

"Thanks to your tip-off, Al. Sorry I made it such heavy going. I guess I'm still not firing on all six cylinders again yet."

He masked a yawn with his hand. Al gave him an understanding smile.

"I'll leave you to re-charge your batteries." Al indicated the bed.

It was almost an order.

Then he summoned up his door, "Good night, Sam, Sleep well."

"Good night, John-Boy!" laughed Sam, tossing an orange playfully at Al as his friend disappeared.


	20. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Tuesday 29th August**

In the crowded old courtroom, Sam took his place in the witness box. He still wore the cervical collar, although he could now bear to spend short periods without it if he didn't make any sudden moves.

He took the proffered Bible, and prepared to be sworn in. This moment had caused him some deep soul-searching. He was a God-fearing man and a law-abiding citizen. He did not take lightly the fact that he would be standing here, swearing before his Maker to tell the truth, whilst perjuring himself over something as fundamental as his identity.

In the end, he decided that the veracity of his evidence was the salient factor, and anyway Ziggy pointed out that for the relevant period Sam **was** David Beckett to all intents and purposes; that he wasn't really telling a lie at all.

He gave his testimony clearly and accurately, his photographic memory providing every detail of what his photographs would have shown had they not been destroyed.

He confessed freely that he was guilty of forced entry and criminal damage, as well as destroying evidence and submitted himself to the Court for whatever punishment was deemed appropriate. As Al predicted, the Court was lenient. It was decided that the Company involved was not in a position to press charges against him, and that his actions had been prompted by the noblest of motives, albeit his methods were not to be condoned. It was also felt that his suffering at the hands of his assailants had been punishment enough – a sort of Trial by Ordeal, as one of the court reporters called it. He was admonished to temper his enthusiasm with caution and a greater respect for the Law in future, and told that no further action would be taken on this occasion. In other words, as Al had put it, he got off with a slap on the wrist.

The cross-examination by Counsel for the Defense was intense and rigorous. Whilst it was not contested that David Beckett had undoubtedly suffered horrifically inside the cement mixer – a fact to which Miss Sally Reynolds attested during her evidence – the perpetrators of this heinous crime, and the identities of those involved with the drugs, were in dispute.

Much was made of David's concussion and the fact that a severe blow to the head can make a person imagine things, or at least remember them inaccurately.

Sam remained unshakable on every detail, and despite very clever questioning they could not trip him up on any aspect of his testimony. He couldn't actually tell the _whole_ truth, of course. He had to leave out the real motive behind his impulse to trash the lab. How would he have explained about Scott and Deke? But his – David's – reputation as a scholar had preceded him. He convinced the Court that the mere sight of the chemicals in the lab and the obvious suffering of the caged animals had been enough to tell him the harm that this synthetic narcotic could do, and that this in turn had persuaded him that it should be destroyed forthwith. Experts from forensics, who had analyzed the substance and discovered it to be highly addictive, strongly hallucinogenic and in every way very dangerous verified his scientific assessment. In other words, it was a menace to society.

Both Robert Daniels, MD and Sergeant Thomas Maxwell, were called to the stand to corroborate the claim that David had been clear in his recollection from the outset. Officer Maxwell referred to his notes taken at the time, and stated that he had no reason to doubt the veracity of the story presented to him, which had led the Narcotics Squad directly to the hidden lab and thence to the whole drugs cartel. He conceded that the statement had been given against medical advice, but refuted any claim that this suggested a fabrication on Mr. Beckett's part. He insisted that Mr. Beckett did not strike him as a vengeful man, who would make such accusations solely to frame the brothers, even if he had a motive to do so, which was unlikely.

Everything he'd said had been borne out by the evidence discovered in the lab. And he certainly hadn't put _himself_ into the cement mixer.

Whilst Dr Daniels confirmed that head injuries could sometimes cause amnesia, he cited the fact that Mr. Beckett readily remembered his own name to support his considered opinion that such had not been the case with this particular patient. Besides, the doctor pointed out, both he and Nurse Woods had witnessed the conclusion of the brutal attack upon Mr. Beckett by one of the accused, whom he now identified as being the one named Guido Ruggiero. He described it as a cowardly assault on a weak and defenseless individual, who had survived only through an amazing display of dexterity, borne of sheer desperation, and the strongest instinct for self-preservation that the medic had ever encountered. He spoke of his amazement that in the midst of his nightmare of suffering, and despite excruciating pain, Mr. Beckett had imparted vital knowledge of the drug, which had allowed them to save the life of the would-be assassin. The physician gave it as his opinion that this act spoke volumes for the character of the witness whose testimony they were trying so hard to throw into doubt.

Dr Daniels also informed the Judge that he had received threats warning him to use his testimony to discredit Mr. Beckett, but he had decided to ignore them. If young Mr. Beckett had the courage to stand up to the punks, he reasoned that an old man such as himself who'd 'had a good innings' should do no less.

As the days stretched on, the evidence became more and more incontrovertible. Officers from the Drug Squad described the lab as the slickest operation they'd ever busted and spoke of the vast scale of the production.

Papers had been discovered, concealed both in the laboratory and in the offices, which incriminated several individuals beyond a shadow of a doubt. Counsel for Defense changed tactics, abandoning fairly rapidly the suggestion of mistaken identity, and trying instead to play on technicalities in the law to secure a mistrial. This ploy also failed miserably, due at least in part to the vast store of knowledge relating to case histories – citing precedents and refuting erroneous claims et cetera - which kept finding its way to the Prosecuting Counsel's desk, from a mysterious and enigmatic researcher who signed himself "Ziggy".

Sam and the Donahues stepped out of the Courtroom and descended the long flight of steps. At last it was all over. Guido had received the longest sentence, having been found guilty on two counts of attempted homicide in addition to the drugs related offences, not to mention the manslaughter of his brother. It had been a very satisfactory outcome.

Justice had been served.


	21. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Smiles, laughter, congratulatory slaps on the back. Another job well done. General celebrations of a happy ending.

Sam Beckett knew all about this scene. It was one he had left behind many times. And as Bill and Cat embraced him now, he felt the familiar tingle that meant that at any moment he would be Leaping again.

He was responsible for the happy ending, his efforts had ensured it, and for once he'd been allowed to sit back and savor some of the fruits of his not inconsiderable labors. He'd been rewarded by Whoever or Whatever controlled his Leaping, given some time to enjoy himself with friends made, and regain his strength.

A little R and R.

Sam was now fully recovered, and more than that, he was refreshed, renewed. He felt content, and profoundly grateful. He was also relieved that David would be reclaiming a body free from pain. He was leaving David, as he'd found him – whole, healthy – and hopefully somewhat happier.

But now, he had no more time for looking backwards. With a last wistful farewell glance at the Donahue family, he surrendered to the limbo of blue haze that transported him to his next Leap. He began looking forward, to discover who he would become in this latest Leap, where and when he was 'landing', and most importantly, why…

'Landing' was almost right, for he Leaped-in in mid-air, the body he'd invaded rigid, leaning forwards at a sharp, precise angle.

He was sailing, wind whistling in his/someone's face, taking his breath away.

It was cold; bright; white.

There was a strong smell of pine.

He was wearing goggles, a knitted hat. He had on a pair of tight fitting trousers, a polo neck jumper and a thick knitted red sweater. Boots strapped on to long straight aluminum skis. He was holding, in gloved hands, poles that ended in a circle, quartered by a cross and centered with a sharp point. Atop his jumper was a white bib, bearing the number 25 in large black numerals.

Then he connected sharply with thick crisp snow, and struggled to keep to his feet as he careered headlong down the steep slope of a mountain, which seemed to stretch to infinity below him.

He swerved to left and right, trying to dodge red and blue flags placed in parallel in his path – slalom that was the word! He was in the middle of some sort of skiing competition.

Except as far as he couldn't remember, Dr Samuel Beckett had never learned how to ski!

As he hurtled drunkenly towards the finish line, fine snow spraying around him like the bow wave of a liner slicing through the ocean, it was at once both exhilarating and utterly terrifying.

He opened his mouth wide, took a deep breath and yelled:

"Ooooooooooh booo-ooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"


End file.
